


Town And Gown

by Camelittle, Merlocked18



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted dubious consent between minor characters, Cricket, M/M, Rock and Roll, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur Pendragon, scholar, mathematician, and cricketer, encounters Merlin Emrys, townie, kebab-van worker, and virtuoso guitar player, their two worlds collide in a flurry of ketchup battles, ill-fitting cricketing gear, and lurid green, Freddie Flintoff underpants. The course of true love never does run smooth, especially not when ambitious fathers, disillusioned mothers, record-company magnates, devious bed-makers and nefarious cricketing friends start shoving a disruptive punt-pole into the proceedings.</p><p>Or: what if <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> was a comedy, based in modern-day Cambridge? With rabbits?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Town And Gown

**Author's Note:**

> I had the great fortune to be prematched for this fantastic fest with Merlocked18, whose enthusiasm and talent inspired me throughout this project. It’s been such a pleasure working with you, Merls! Insane squealing, flapping and flailing greeted every new piece of gorgeous and inspirational art that appeared in my inbox. Dear reader, please go and give Merlocked18 all the love for the AMAZING art at the art masterpost [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2098350).
> 
> This story was a big mess before the fabulous and patient Waanderlust (Wanderlust48) intervened to help me curtail the activities of the most exuberant plot bunnies, and also cheerled, plot beta-ed and held my virtual hand to get the thing done. The wonderful archaeologist_d read it all in about a day, and found a whole load of things that needed fixing, and Tari_Sue provided sage advice and encouragement. Emmett helped me with parentheses and exposition trimming, and Neurotic_Nick rummaged for quotes. Huge thanks also to the legion of encouragers, enablers and enthusiasts on merlin_chat, who talked me down from ridiculous, overblown analogies, and provided copious virtual hugs, tea, cake, and on occasion JD. It’s been a blast.
> 
> Thank you so much, lovely mods, K_Nightfox and Crimsonswirls, for holding this fantastic fest. Without you, none of this would be possible. You’re awesome! 
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters portrayed in this story are based on the BBC / Shine production “Merlin”. Alas, I do not own the rights to these characters. If I did, Merlin and Arthur would have snogged each other a whole lot more, on screen. With tongues. Instead of doing it all behind closed doors.

_~Story by Camelittle~_

_~Art by Merlocked18~_

 

 

**May Week (End of Easter Term)**

**Market Hill, Cambridge**

_My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee._

_~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

 

It all starts innocently enough.

When Arthur sobers up, and thinks about it, he’ll realise that the whole thing hinges, as these things so often do, on the outcome of a poorly judged bet. But, right now, he can barely drag his thoughts together into a single coherent strand, let alone put his finger on them. This sorry state of affairs might be something to do with the fact that he is queuing, semi-naked in the middle of Market Square, for a kebab. Plus, the gallon of beer sloshing around in his gut is enough to banish logic from even the most exact mathematical brain.

But later in the unforgiving light of his hangover, when he sits up, drenched in sweat, in the middle of the night, that’s when it’ll hit him.

Stupid, stupid bet.

It seemed like such a good idea half an hour ago, but the cool evening air on his skin is giving him goose bumps. He raises a bottle of Becks to his lips, hand slightly unsteady, and takes a swig to stave off the unwelcome, cold embrace of sobriety.

It’s all Leon’s fault, of course. It’s bad form to remain sober at the Camelot College, Cambridge, Cricket Club Dinner. The bloody Men’s Captain, sodding Leon, has no excuse, and he needn’t think that just because they’ve all drunk more pints Old Peculiar than most of them can count, no-one noticed him guzzling the odd bottle of coke.

Arthur smiles at the memory, still fresh despite all the liquid lubrication. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up and give a boring speech to a room-full of well-oiled but thirsty boys and girls, all of whom have finely-honed throwing skills, a large dinner in their bellies, a fair amount of Camelot College port at their elbows, and an unlimited supply of stale Camelot College bread rolls as ammunition.

In these circumstances, a good captain delivers a blinder of a speech, peppered with ample drinking opportunities (i.e. toasts to their various successes and continued position at the top of the Cuppers cricket league), and finds a suitable alternative victim for the hordes to pick on before the food fight begins in earnest.

Leon is an exceptional club captain.

The stakes of the bet are high. Leon has challenged the candidates for next year’s men’s captaincy to battle for the honour of the role by shopping, naked, for a kebab, on Market Hill, late that evening. 

Yes. It’s all Leon’s fault.

They stand, more or less politely, in the queue, holding their dress-suit trousers in one hand, otherwise stripped down to their boxer shorts, in the interests of not being arrested before they’ve had an opportunity to buy their kebabs.

They’re a sorry looking bunch, apart from Myror who somehow always manages to look dignified. Gwaine’s so pissed that he’s developed a distinct lean, like that tower in Italy, although thankfully, Owain is on hand to prevent him from toppling. And Cenred? Well, unfortunately he’s offensively wankered. 

 _"I like townies,"_ Cenred’s singing. _"I like their little brains. The boys go to Brownies and the girls lick clean the drains."_

Twat.

Now that they’ve been queuing for what seems like forever, the buzz is beginning to wear off. The van has “Gwen’s & Will’s Turkish Delight” written on the side. A dark, sweet-faced girl, presumably Gwen, and a young, surly bloke, who could be Will, are serving kebabs. A scruffy-looking, stubbly, dark-haired guy with the most startling  cheekbones, not that Arthur’s looking, is collecting empty packaging from people and putting it in a large dustbin on one side of the van.

When he bends over for a moment, bum waggling in the air, Arthur definitely doesn’t notice that it’s sheathed most deliciously in figure-hugging jeans that leave nothing to the imagination, and that’s not what makes him gulp. Not at all.

But wait, Arthur’s at the front. Ignoring the catcalls and rude comments from passers-by and others in the queue, Arthur tosses his trousers to one side, steps out of his bright green, lucky “Freddy Flintoff” underpants, one hand on the kebab van for balance, and waves said pants triumphantly at the camera-wielding bastard Leon, may-his-pubic-hair-go-mouldy-for-making-Arthur-do-this. As the camera clicks, Arthur finds himself hoping this doesn’t get into the papers, and thus back to his father. 

Stepping up to the kebab van, his gaze is met by that of the horrified round, dark eyes of the girl, and it’s only then that he starts to feel his face heat up. “Erm… I’ll have a small doner kebab, please. Extra chilli sauce.”

“Careful with that,” she says, dimples forming round her mouth. “You wouldn’t want it dribbling down your front, now… could be painful!” She casts her eyes deliberately down to his groin region, which he hastily attempts to cover with his hand. He’s blushing furiously, now, dammit. He hadn’t factored saucy kebab-selling wenches into his calculations. “That’ll be six pounds fift—”

“Ten pound,” interrupts the grim-faced Will. “Stop flirting with the grad wankers, Gwen!” he adds, under his breath, but not so quiet that Arthur can’t hear. Aware that he’s being fleeced, but not wanting to rock the boat, Arthur hastily pulls his pants back on, and casts about for his discarded, crumpled dress-suit trousers, where he left his wallet.

“This what you’re looking for?” It’s the bloke with the gorgeous arse; he must have found Arthur’s trousers when he was doing his clearing up. He smiles disarmingly at Arthur, whose pulse starts to race when their fingers meet for a long second.

“Thanks,” Arthur manages to say, smiling back, his voice only a little bit croaky.

“Bloody hell, Arthur,” grumbles Cenred, behind him. “It’s bloody brass monkeys out here. We’re not in a bloody restaurant, you know. Stop sucking up to that fucking townie git and pay for your damn kebab.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur rummages around in the pockets of his trousers, extracts a tenner and waves it vaguely at Will, who snatches it, gracelessly, and shoves it in the till.

Stepping away from the van to let Myror take his place, Arthur locks eyes with gorgeous-arse-and-cheekbones-bloke.

“Thanks,” Arthur says. “For the trousers, I mean. And… erm… well, sorry about my obnoxious pillock of a team-mate and all that… erm… nudity… it’s… it’s a bet.”

“You don’t say. There was me thinking you were doing it to impress me.” The bloke’s eyes, dark in the dim post-midnight street lighting, flick appraisingly downwards while he bites his lip. “It’ll take a bit more than that, though…”

Arthur feels his cheeks start to get warm again. “It’s cold!” he blurts out, feeling suddenly defensive. “There’s no need to start making judgments, whatever-your-name-is.”

“It’s Merlin. And, although, the front view was not all that spectacular, I have to say, whatever- _your_ -name is, the rear view more than made up for it.”

“Well, _Mer_ lin...” He stops there, arrested by the way that the street-lamp light falls on the guy’s face. Bloody hell. His cheekbones are kicking right off.

And, bugger it all, Arthur hadn’t realised he’d said that out loud.

“You liking them?” The cheeky sod’s delicious-looking lips press together in a flirtatious smirk, and then he shakes his head with a shy, self-deprecating laugh that makes his eyes sparkle and his shoulders shake.

Yes, Arthur’s liking them, very much indeed, and the whole of the rest of the person they’re attached to, so much that he bites the inside of his lips, the tang of blood rich and oddly metallic on his tongue. “Arthur,” he says, swallowing. “My name’s Arthur. Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin steps forward and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, Arthur Pendragon,” he says, softly. “You and your vile mates, and your very, very fine arse.”

Next in the queue is Gwaine. His eyes are unfocussed and his tilt has become even more pronounced. He could lean for Ireland, could Gwaine.

“Lamshish,” he says, swaying. “Ships, keshup, shilly soss,” he adds, much to the amusement of Gwen, while he wrestles with his underpants. He’s wearing tight, black briefs that he insists show off his best features to maximum effect. They look like they’re a bugger to get off, that’s for sure.

“Lamb shish, chips, ketchup, chilli sauce.” Gwen’s interpretation is probably correct. “That’s Eleven pound fif—”

“Fifteen pound,” over-rules the scowling Will.

Arthur watches with interest as Gwaine fumbles to get his finger under the waistband of his pants to reach the required level of total nudity, leans just a little bit too far to the left, teeters for a long moment, and tumbles straight into a large black bin-liner full of rubbish.

Arthur’s got his trousers on by this point, and hastily kneels to check that Gwaine hasn’t damaged himself in the fall. He turns Gwaine, so that his face isn’t obscured by the plastic, and laughs, shaking his head.

Gwaine’s eyes are closed and his lips curl up in a blissful smile. He’s beginning to snore, gently.

Meanwhile, Cenred, who has energetically flung his y-fronts away, is standing, hands on hips at the front of the queue, demanding a lamb kofta.

“Fifteen quid,” says Will.

“Fuck off,” says Cenred, scowling. “Fifteen quid for a kebab? Fucking townie wankers. That’s a sodding rip-off and you know it.”

“All right,” says Will, leaning forward, elbows wide. “For fucking nobby grad bastards like you, a special price deal. Twenty quid.”

“Fuck you,” yells Cenred, reaching over the counter and grabbing a ketchup bottle. Angling it so that it’s pointing straight at Will’s face, he gives it a good squirt.

“Wanker!” yells Will, grabbing another ketchup bottle and spraying Cenred liberally with it, paying particular attention to his groin and face.

Spitting ketchup from his mouth and retching, Cenred wipes the red gloop from his closed eyes with his fists. In the glare of the Market Square street lighting he looks like a naked, angry red-and-white panda. Leon’s camera is not the only one trained on him.

“I’ll get you for this, you vulgar, townie prick,” says Cenred his voice low and spiteful. “You will regret this. This ketchup tastes rank, by the way. And so do your fucking over-priced, shitty kebabs.”

It’s a shame Gwaine’s missing everything. He’s still fast asleep, looking almost cosy with his head lolling around on the black bin-liner. Smiling, Arthur shoves his hands under Gwaine’s arms, and gently tugs him to his feet.

“Come on, mate,” he says. “Let’s be getting you home, eh?”

It’s been an epic night.

 

 

**Long Vacation**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_Cricket is a game which the English, not being a spiritual people, have invented in order to give themselves some conception of eternity_

_~Lord Mancroft_

 

Ah, the eternal Long Vacation. Sometimes Arthur thinks he’s the only undergraduate who wishes it would end almost the second that it begins.

For some, it represents an opportunity to earn some much-needed cash and gain valuable work experience. For those more fortunate in their personal circumstances, it means three months of glorious travel, inappropriate sexual liaisons, and risky daredevil sports in sunny climes.

In Arthur’s case, unfortunately, it amounts to three months of unrelenting misery, living at home working as an unpaid administrative intern for his father, Professor Uther Pendragon who happens to be the university Vice Chancellor.

His half-sister, who’s at nearby Avalon College, one of the three remaining women-only colleges in Cambridge University, is already in the car while Arthur helps Uther’s new driver, Elyan, to load his neatly-boxed possessions.

“Well done, Morgana,” Uther’s saying. “I was surprised but pleased to hear about your First Class result this year.”

“Thank you, Father,” says Morgana.

There’s a tense silence, where Uther’s displeasure makes itself felt, through the simple expedient of not mentioning Arthur’s exam results at all. In any other household, an upper second would be a respectable grade, but not, it seems, if your name is Pendragon.

In a gesture of silent solidarity, Morgana reaches out to give Arthur’s hand an affectionate, sisterly squeeze, which he returns with gratitude, because of all people Morgana understands what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Uther’s limitless supply of disapproval.

Just when Arthur thought he was going to get away with the silent treatment, which to be honest he can live with especially compared to the alternatives, Uther lets out a great sigh.

“Arthur,” he says, his voice deep and authoritative, conveying in that single word a vast sense of disappointment.

How does his father do this? How does he make Arthur’s breath stutter and his blood freeze by just saying his name?

Not for the first time, Arthur wonders why he doesn’t just stick all his stuff, most of which is cricket kit anyway, into a wheelbarrow and push it the three miles to Grantchester rather than put up with this interminable ten-minute drive. Glancing to the front of the Rolls for a second, he catches Elyan’s sympathetic gaze in the rear-view mirror, and shrugs.

“Arthur,” Uther’s speaking again, “I believe that your exam results demonstrate a degree of dissolution in your lifestyle. I had been happy to wait until you graduate before expecting you to settle down, but I think for your own good we need to choose you a bride before the end of your second year. Morgana, you will be in your third year next year. I have decided to hold a ball in your honour during the Long Vacation, in which I expect you both to consider the main prospects. I would like to announce your engagements by Christmas.”

“What?” Morgana’s voice is shrill when she’s outraged, and Arthur winces. “No! Father, I…”

“No buts, Morgana.” The car is sweeping into the long, gravelly drive, and the security gates close behind it with an audible “clunk” that makes Arthur shiver.

It’s like entering a prison, he thinks, as he and Morgana exchange horrified glances.

 

 

**Long Vacation**

**Market Hill, Cambridge**

_I think the division of Town and Gown has grown in some ways more obvious_

_~ Professor Mary Beard (Cambridge News 2014)_

 

 

“Fish and sheeps! ‘Ello! ‘Ow are you? Fuck off!” says the kid, looking round at his identikit audience. They laugh uproariously. Merlin rolls his eyes. Half way through the summer holiday period, he’s so sick of these English-as-a-foreign-language students and clueless tourists that he’s almost missing the undergraduates who comprise their more usual late-night customers. They may be rowdy and obnoxious, but at least they can think of more than one insult.

Will glares at the kid. “Piss off, yourself,” he growls. “And you can shove your fucking fish and chips up your—ow!” Out of the corner of his eye Merlin sees Will stumble, as if he’s just been nudged, very hard.

“I’m afraid we don’t serve fish,” says Gwen, in a polite voice. “No fish,” she adds for the benefit of their limited English skills. From his position restocking the deep-fat fryer, Merlin can only see the back of her head, but he can tell she’s smiling sweetly. “But chips are only one pound fifty a portion.”

This lot must be particularly dense, because they’re still gazing at her blankly while the first one repeats “fuckoff, hahaha”.

“Chips! One-Fifty,” she says, firmly.

Soon Merlin’s ladling thirteen portions of chips into polystyrene containers, and Will’s ringing up nineteen-pounds-fifty into the ancient till. This is why Gwen is a godsend on the kebab van. Their customers are often quite unruly, but somehow she manages to disarm them all by the sheer power of her dimples.

When they’ve gone, Will lets out a heartfelt sigh. “Bloody language-school twats. I fucking miss the _graaad_ wankers, sometimes,” he says, lengthening the “a” syllable in “grad” in time-honoured fashion.

“I know what you mean,” says Merlin, jabbing at the hot-plate with the serving slice to free up all the gungy bits that get stuck to the bottom. “I mean, the grads, right, they’re all posh gits, but at least they’re entertaining. I’m sick of being sworn at by kids who think it’s funny saying “ _’Ello, ‘ow are you? Fuck off_ ” to everyone.”

“Oh, boys!” says Gwen, in the slightly exasperated tone she adopts sometimes. She shuffles a new bundle of napkins into the dispenser. “The customer is not the enemy, all right? Anyway, Will, I bet you can only remember the swear words from your French lessons.”

“You’re talking _merde_ , Gwen,” says Will, grinning while he gives the chip-fryer a few good shakes.

Looking round, as if to spot any stray trading standards officers who might be lurking on Market Hill at this time of night, Will leans under the counter, extracts a large tub of cheap, watered-down ketchup from the cash-and-carry, and, still darting guilty looks about the square, starts to decant great globs of ketchup into empty “Heinz” bottles.

He stops as soon as a potential customer comes into view round the corner, and plonks a refilled bottle on the counter, pursing his lips at Merlin’s disapproving expression. 

“What?” Will hisses, all defensive. “Most of our customers are French. They think our food is shit anyway; I’m just confirming their prejudices.”

“It’s dishonest, Will, that’s all,” Merlin hisses back, leaning on the counter for a second. There’s a lull in the queue; nothing needs doing right at that instant, and his feet are tired. “If you’re serving ketchup in Heinz bottles, they’re going to expect it to be bloody Heinz ketchup. I think it might be fraud.”

“For fuck’s sake, Merlin, you great big girl's blouse.” Will shoves his upper arm a bit too hard. “That’s our bloody profit margin.”

“Fuck off yourself, Will.” Merlin shoves him back.

It’s an often-repeated argument, and it never ends well.

“Did you have a good rehearsal, today, Merlin?” says Gwen, changing the subject like she always does when Merlin and Will start along these lines.

Casting his mind back on his day, Merlin can’t stop a soft smile from spreading itself across his face.

“Oh my God,” says Will, peering at him. “You’ve set him off, again, Gwen. Bet he just spent the whole time making cow eyes at Mordred and bullshitting.” He adopts a high falsetto voice. “Yes, Mordred. You sing so beautifully, Mordred. You’re so gorgeous, Mordred. Can I fuck you, Mordred? Ow!” This last exclamation was a response to Merlin’s punch on the arm. “Look, mate, you know you can do better, right? I mean, he’s an all right bloke, at least he’s not a fucking _graaad_ , but he can’t sing for toffee.”

“He’s got a lovely voice, prick,” says Merlin, stung at this slight to his crush. Mordred does have a lovely voice, and most of the time it’s in tune. Besides which, he’s got beautiful eyes and a sweet smile that lights up his face…

“Ha!” Will snorts. “It’ll be his prick you’re dreaming about, not his voice,” he says. “He’s holding you back, mate.”

Gwen finishes serving a customer and then turns to them both, her face thoughtful.

“I hate to say it, but Will’s got a point for once, you know.”

Shocked at this betrayal, Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Gwen holds up a hand.

“Let me speak, Merlin!” she says, frowning. “Look. Mordred’s a nice enough bloke, but really you should be playing for a much better band. You’re an incredible guitar player. And no matter how much you’d like him to be gay, he’s straight. He has an incredibly well-connected girlfriend, Merlin; her name is Kara. You know this.”

“Why are you both intent on making me feel miserable?” His friends are horrible, and insensitive, and everybody can just fuck right off. “Anyway, he might be bi? Maybe he just hasn’t found the right person yet?”

The understanding look in Gwen’s eye as she rubs his arm doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Look,” she says, in a conciliatory tone. “You might be right. But please, Merlin, promise you’ll look around elsewhere first all right? It’s a cliché, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea. My brother’s new boss is having a party next weekend in Grantchester. Elyan said he’d let me and some friends in. The son is on the college cricket team; there’ll be lots of fit, beautiful cricketing boys there; why don’t we all crash it and see if we can pull?”

“I don’t _want_ to snog some arrogant grad, Gwen!” Merlin protests. Elyan’s new boss is a professor type, all old money and disdain for the working class, whose son is studying at the university. No doubt all the toffee-nosed guests would sneer down at the likes of Merlin and his friends, none of whom can afford university tuition fees.

Gwen’s mouth tilts up slyly on one side. “Mordred will be there,” she says softly. Gwen always knows how to make him feel better.

“He will? Seriously?” he says.

“Yes. He’s going as Kara’s plus one.”

Scowling momentarily at his rival’s name, Merlin’s nonetheless warming to the idea. All he’d have to do is tempt Mordred away from her. “And Elyan’d do that for us? He won’t get in trouble?”

Gwen smiles. “No. Apparently he’s struck up an unlikely friendship with his boss’s son, who said he wants Elyan to come. So, technically speaking, we’re all practically invited.”

“I’m not going to some fucking, posho, nob party full of lah-di-dah Hooray Henrys.” Will frowns.

“There’ll be as much free booze as you can drink,” says Gwen, who knows, from long years of acquaintance, all Will’s levers.

“Really? Oh. Why didn’t you say so? Well, in that case…” An evil grin spreads across his face. “I’m in. Merlin, you coming?”

“No way. Mum would disown me if I actually shagged one of them.” Merlin’s stomach churns at the thought of the disappointed expression she’d have on her face if he snogged a grad, let alone brought one home. “She once said that Telegraph readers should be shot. She’s firmly convinced that all the University lot are Tory bastards who’d sleep with you once and then drop you like a hot potato.” And not without justification, he adds silently; Merlin himself is evidence of one such liaison taking place way back in his mother’s shiny-eyed, idealistic youth. His heart burns when he thinks about the type of feckless, conceited person his father must have been. There’s no way he’d ever take up with that sort of git.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” said Gwen, smiling. “You’ll just be window shopping. I’m sure Hunith won’t mind.”

But in the end, despite his misgivings, Gwen persuades him to go, wearing a second-hand dinner jacket he’s borrowed from old Mr Taliesin up the road.

Sometimes, a long time later, after this is all over, he wonders what would have happened if he’d dug his heels in.

 

 

**Long Vacation**

**Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_My friend, Imran Khan, who is a famous cricketer and a very popular man with the ladies, has bodyguards outside his room, warding women off. I have guys warding them in._

_~Zia Mahmood_

 

It’s a good thing that his mother has drilled Merlin in self-care. She wouldn’t be able to do this kind of alteration, not any more, not without a sewing machine, not with the way her fingers tremble and her eyes fail to focus. But now Merlin has cause to salute her because, despite the protestations of his younger self that sewing is an unmanly skill, she’s taught him the techniques he needs, so that in the privacy of the bedroom he shares with Will in their tiny council estate flat, he has managed to alter the fit of their borrowed dinner suits.

Eyeing himself in the cracked bathroom river, he has to confess that, if he squints, his bum really doesn’t look too bad. Smiling at the mirror, Merlin practices shooting his cuffs and smoothing his lapel, like Daniel Craig as James Bond. Oh yes, smooth, Merlin, smooth. If there’s even the tiniest chance that Mordred might return his affections, he’ll be bowled over.

Even Will looks tolerably presentable, with his normally unruly hair all slicked back. “Bring on the posh totty!” he crows. “Come on ladies! Ecstasy beckons! Come and get it!” He points at his groin and does a suggestive pelvic thrust.

“You may look okay,” says Merlin, rolling his eyes, “but you spoil the effect every time you open your mouth, you gobby twat. You’ll have to keep your great, big, chavvy gob shut or we’ll all be out on our ears.”

“Don’t be such a giant pussy, Merlin,” says Will, pushing out his bottom lip. “You spoil all my fun.”

But there’s no time for a retort, because the doorbell is ringing; Elyan’s there, and Gwen’s in the car. Merlin stoops to kiss his mum gently on the cheek, and off they go, into the shiny limo that Elyan’s managed to borrow for the evening.

He can’t believe his eyes when he gets there, “there” being some fancy mansion in Grantchester known as Pendragon House.

“Blimey,” says Gwen, eyebrows raised. “How the bleeding other half live, eh?”

Merlin can’t help laughing. The way she’s speaking seems somehow incongruous coming from the elegant lips of a regally dressed young lady. She’s managed to blag one of Elyan’s boss’s daughter’s cast-offs, so she’s resplendent in a low-cut yellow silk gown that fits her snugly in all the right places, thanks to Merlin’s clever alterations.

Casting his eyes around the place, he can’t help agreeing with her sentiment.

Pendragon House is an imposing edifice, all wrought-iron gates and rhododendrons. Twinkling, pale-pink fairy lights line the long gravel path, which sweeps up to a vast, ostentatious neo-Gothic manor building, complete with turrets, crenulations, balustrades, and arches.

He looks down again at the invitation.

“Uther Pendragon cordially invites you to a ball in honour of his daughter, Morgana and his son, Arthur. Dress: Black Tie.”

It had taken him a while to work out that Black Tie did not mean dressing for a funeral, but rather, in the arcane language of the Cambridge nob, dressing in a dinner jacket and bow tie.

Now. Pendragon. The name rings a bell. Where has he heard that name before?

But he doesn’t have time to mull it over, because they’re swishing through the gates, gravel crunching under the tyres. When they pull up at the door, Merlin goes to tug at the handle, but Gwen stays his hand, nodding out of the window. He hasn’t noticed the footman, who reaches down and pulls open the door to usher him out. It’s all he can do not to gape at the bloke; he nods, instead, hoping that it’s not too obvious that they’re way out of their depth.

Hearing Elyan’s poorly-disguised sniggers, Merlin decides to ignore them with an icy disdain. Unfortunately, this works brilliantly for a maximum of two seconds, at which point, seeing Will’s constipated expression when he’s addressed as “sir”, he bursts into uncontrollable giggles. 

While Elyan goes off to park the limo, the three of them set forth towards the house. Gwen’s stumbling in her heels on this gravel, so he and Will take one arm each to escort her up the stone stairs to the grand entranceway, where another footman waits to take their coats. They’re led through a massive hallway. Silent, not wanting to let on to the staff how intimidated they are by all the enormous portraits of stern-faced men and haughty-looking women that line the walls, they walk out to the waiting marquee at the rear of the property.

The door out to the back garden has a welcoming-looking, flower-festooned, covered gangway, red carpet over some sort of hardwood that Gwen must surely be grateful for, as it will prevent her from sinking into the lawn in her heels. The enormous marquee would swallow Merlin’s entire flat several times over. From it emanates mundane strains of modern music, Olly Murs if Merlin’s not very much mistaken, together with excited squeals, the tinkle of glasses, and raucous laughter.

In short, the sounds of a party going on.

Now this is more like it.

“Been to a lot of parties like this, m’lady?” whispers Merlin into Gwen’s ear.

She chuckles. “Why, all the time, sir!”

“In that case, my lady, shall we?” He proffers his arm.

“I rather think we shall,” she says with a charming dimple, delicately placing her hand on his elbow.

“Show me the way to the free booze!” says Will. He has always been rubbish at playing the game.

When they arrive at the marquee, a bloke with a microphone taps it and gets everyone’s attention. “Ladies and Gentleman,” he says in a booming voice. “Mr Merlin Emrys. Miss Guinevere Leodegrance. Mr William Williamson.”

Merlin’s not listening; he’s scanning the faces in the crowd, disappointed when he fails to spot the lovely Mordred. “You promised me he’d be here,” he hisses in Gwen’s ear.

“Well I don’t bloody know where he is, do I?” she answers, frowning. She’s got her eyes trained on a spot in the dense melee of gyrating bodies.

Merlin catches Will’s eye.

Lifting his hand, to his forehead, narrow side on so that the palm is facing to one side, Will waggles it. “Sharking,” he mouths, nodding at Gwen. “On the pull.”

Merlin snorts.

Making another hand gesture, waggling his hand to his mouth as if holding a cup, with an enquiring lift of an eyebrow, Will disappears off in search of the free booze. Merlin suspects he will not be seen again until morning, when he’ll be unearthed by one of the cleaning staff, snoring under some trestle table.

One thing is true though; Gwen is on the hunt. “Bloody hell!” she says, nudging Merlin. “Who’s that? He’s lush! No! don’t point, Merlin, you arse.” She slaps his hand, frowning. “Try to be subtle. Bloke over there with dark hair. Sultry looking. He’s mine, OK?”

“Like you’re being really subtle, Gwen.” But Merlin obediently looks over and, seeing the bloke who fits Gwen’s description, whistles. “Wow, he’s hot! If he turns out to bat for my team, be sure to let me know!”

She chuckles and gently extricates herself from his grip. “See! I told you! Loads of fit blokes, here. Look. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” she says. “Go and enjoy yourself. See you later on to exchange notes. Remember, it’s not all about Mordred, okay? Check out some of the other gorgeous specimens in this room. Who’d have thought that cricketers could be this buff?”

Sighing, Merlin allows his eyes to be drawn around the room. It’s true, he’ll allow her that much. There are some fine-looking blokes littering the room. Letting his attention slide past the drinks fountain towards the free bar, he finds his gaze is pulled irresistibly to a blond head, thrown back in an attitude of carefree laughter. When the bloke finishes laughing, and looks directly at Merlin, it’s as if an electrical charge shoots through Merlin’s body, making him gasp.

Looks like Gwen's right. And if cricketers as a breed are hot, hot, hot, this particular one is sizzling. Positively incandescent. Come to think of it, he looks a bit familiar, too. Puzzled, Merlin feels his brows draw together. Where has he seen that buff-looking body before? If he isn’t very much mistaken, he’s seen that top half with very little clothing on indeed.

And the bottom half, come to that.

Merlin’s mouth lifts up first on one side and then on the other as an incredulous grin plasters itself across his face.

It’s that gorgeous, slappable-arsed bloke from that memorable night, not so long ago, when loads of fit geezers stripped off to buy kebabs from the van.

There’s no sign of Mordred, yet, but Merlin can’t deny that things are looking up.

 

 

The party wouldn’t be all that bad if it wasn’t for the enormous weight of expectation that’s pressing on Arthur, born of his father’s views on the role of marriage in society. Sometimes his father goes through old-fashioned and out the other side. Their family isn’t royal or anything, it doesn’t have any particular rule of primogeniture to be concerned about, so why the big deal over Arthur’s choice of partner?

He knows that it’s partly grief over his mother’s death that is making Uther, all too aware of his own mortality, and that of those he loves, act this way. Uther wants to get some grandchildren before it’s too late, and truly, Arthur does not wish to disappoint his father, he knows he has suffered enough already. But there’s something important that Uther doesn’t know about him, something that thrusts an enormous spanner into the moving parts of Uther’s machinations.

That _something_ is what makes his breath catch when his eyes lock with those of a tall, slender man. It’s what makes his heart quicken and his face warm under the scrutiny of heavy-lidded eyes, laden with invitation. It’s what makes his hand act without volition to discard his champagne flute, makes his feet carry him across to the man, what makes him stand there, close enough to touch, aching with the desire to kiss those dark-pink, plump lips.

Because Arthur’s not straight, not by a long chalk. And the thought of marrying, or even touching, any of those girls—Elena, Mithian, Vivian or Sophia—lovely though he can see they are, makes something shrivel up inside him.

Whereas…

“We meet again,” says the bloke, his mouth quirking up on one side flirtatiously. Dark eyes rake Arthur’s body with a clear intent that makes his skin tingle and his trousers feel tight.

“What? Do I know you?” Arthur’s sure he would have remembered if they’d met before.

“Well, ‘know’ is a strong word for it, certainly. But I recognised you straight away.” The bloke licks his lips and leans forward so that Arthur can feel his breath gusting against his ear. “Although obviously you have more clothes on than you did the last time we met.”

Arthur’s aroused, confused and horrified all at once. Mixed with the guilt and resentment he’s feeling towards his father at the moment, this cocktail of unfamiliar emotions makes him frown. He’s sorry he left his champagne now; his mouth’s feeling dry and dusty. Arthur doesn’t do one-night stands; surely he’d remember this bloke with the stunning cheekbones and lickable ears if they’d—

“I’ve still got the photo on my phone,” the bloke is saying now. “Finest arse I’ve ever seen, I have to say.”

Oh. Wait. It’s beginning to come back to Arthur. His head tilted on one side, he lets his eyes narrow speculatively as they rove around the bloke’s lithe-looking, willowy figure and come to rest on those tantalising lips. As he watches a moist, glistening, pink tongue pops out between them for a split-second, and that’s it, Arthur knows he’s got to kiss this man at the first available opportunity.

“I… er…” Arthur swallows again. “I suppose that means you’re the bloke from the kebab van.”

“I’m Merlin.” The smile that splits his face swallows up his eyes and fills Arthur with delight.

“Arthur,” he just about manages to croak as he holds his hand out for Merlin to shake. “Nice to meet you at last, properly I mean.”

“Likewise.” As he takes Arthur’s hand, Merlin’s clear eyes are steady on his, wide open and dark. When their palms lock Merlin lets out an audible gasp.

Arthur can’t help doing the same, because it feels like they fit, somehow. Merlin’s touch makes his whole body tingle, as if an electrical charge is passing between them. Reluctant to end the handshake, Arthur lets his hand linger for a second. When he feels the warm, delicate drag of fingertips along the inside of his wrist, it makes him shiver.

“Fuck,” Merlin’s whispering, precisely echoing Arthur’s thoughts.

For a long moment, they stand together, touching fingertips, while all around them the hubbub of chatter and laughter mingles with the din of the music. Somehow it seems to dim, and make a tactful retreat, leaving them silent in a cocoon of longing and arousal. The evening now seems alive, pregnant with possibilities.

“Listen,” Arthur hears himself say. “I’m… you’re very erm… nice? For a townie, I mean.” He frowns, stumbling to find the words.

“Whereas you are obviously a complete prat,” says Merlin, an air of mischief about him as he looks Arthur up and down. “But a posh one, I’ll grant you that.”

Pendragons do not blush, obviously, but Arthur can’t help feeling his cheeks heat minutely. “I take it all back,” he growls, raking Merlin’s spare frame with his eyes. “You’re not nice at all.” He wants to step forward, to take. “Good.”

Merlin hums. “I may not be nice,” he says, and Arthur senses, from the angle of Merlin’s head, from some subliminal sixth sense, that Merlin’s about to move into his space, and kiss him. “But I’m very, very good.”

Well, really, this just isn’t fair. Arthur wants, with every fibre of his being, to feel those sinful, sensual lips on his, but, no, no. he can’t. Not with his father watching.

He steps back, and the movement pulls his hand away. It’s a warm night, but the sudden loss of contact, mixed with the surprise and confusion on Merlin’s face, makes him feel ice cold. The sights and sounds of the party return in full, unwelcome force, and he reaches out, instinctively, gently holding Merlin’s shoulder, craving the contact, gasping as the world recedes again.

“What was that?” Arthur says again, softly. “It felt like… I don’t know. Static electricity or something. But nicer. I mean… I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, his lips twisting up, making fascinating dimples burst onto his cheeks and chin.

“I felt something, that’s for sure,” he says, tilting his head. “It didn’t hurt… I wouldn’t mind feeling it again. In fact I… I’d be rather sorry not to… to explore the possibilities further.”

The low, seductive tone in Merlin’s voice makes something dark and primeval tug at Arthur, something made of heat and animal instinct, and he finds himself grasping Merlin’s shoulder more firmly and swaying forward, as if seeking more contact. There’s nothing he’d like to do more than to take Merlin up on that offer, to consider every one of an infinite number of inviting options that involve the sheer sensation of Merlin’s warm skin on his. His nerve endings are aflame, alert to every nuance of Merlin’s stance. His heart thunders and his breath quickens. Every fibre of his being wills him to throw caution to the winds and say “yes, yes, whatever you desire.”

“It’s curious, uh, weird really… I mean, you look okay.” He gulps. Being charming has never come easily to him. “And you smell good. So, erm... Okay! I think I’d like that,” he says, cautiously, “Quite a lot, I mean.” He feels his face screw up with the effort to find the unfamiliar words. “Nearly as much as I’d like to play cricket for England, you know. Maybe even more than that!”

“I don’t know. Is that a lot?” Merlin’s expression is mischievous.

Chuckling, Arthur nods. “That’s a lot, yes.” He gulps. “It’s just I…” he feels like he’s being strangled. He can’t dance with Merlin, not here, but he’d like to. How do you say that to someone you’ve only exchanged a few words with? “You...”

Merlin’s still there, still looking at him, with a faint, confused-looking smile on his face. “Look,” he says. “I guess you’re, well. Look at you! And me, I’m… I’m just a… well. But I’d like you to know that. Yeah. Yeah I feel it. Sort of tingly thing. Bit like pins and needles.” He looks up at the roof of the marquee, as if for inspiration, eyes glistening and cheekbones stark in the flashing disco aura.

Arthur smiles. “Are you always this articulate, Merlin,” he says, drawing out the word “Merlin”.

“Only when I’m being chatted up by gorgeous prats,” says Merlin. His eyes keep flicking down to Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur’s blood surges at the thought that Merlin seems to be just as thrown by this insane instant attraction as he is.

Aware of curious stares, Arthur leans forward, and resists drawing Merlin in for a lengthy, passionate kiss, but only just.

“I’d like to, you know,” he says. He’d like to kiss Merlin, for a really, really long time, with tongues and everything, and at the very thought, a sudden sense of longing curls into his gut, but he just can’t bring himself to say the words. He’s trying, and failing, to ignore the warmth of Merlin’s shoulder under his hand. It’s all Merlin’s fault for being too distracting.

“But I really can’t, not here. I’m being watched, you see. I have to dance with high-born ladies and tell them charming stories until they pretend to laugh.” He hadn’t wanted to do that in the first place. But now… even less so.

“Being watched?” Merlin’s lips purse into a mischievous-looking, appraising moue. “Well, with an arse like that I can’t say I’m surprised. But, wait, you mean by someone other than me?”

Arthur laughs, then feels his face grow stern as he tries to explain.

“I’m expected to find a wife at this party.” He grimaces. “I can choose between Sophia, Vivian, Elena and Mithian. They’re all lovely girls. Well, Elena and Mithian are, anyway. And I haven’t got round to explaining to my father why I can’t marry any of them.”

“That’s weird,” says Merlin, a line appearing between his eyes; Arthur itches to smooth it away with his thumb. “I thought arranged marriages were a thing of the past.”

“Try telling my father that,” says Arthur. His hand keeps twitching, it’s almost like it is reaching out of its own accord just to touch Merlin and feel that extraordinary charge pass between them again. Instead, he twirls his ring around on his thumb. “Look, can I get you a drink?” That at least is safe, even under Uther’s gimlet-like stare.

“Maybe,” says Merlin, with a secretive smile as his gaze dips again, down to Arthur’s mouth. There’s a faint flush on his pale cheeks that makes him look fey and otherworldly.

Arthur finds it hard to take his eyes off Merlin’s face, but finally wrenches himself away long enough to fetch two champagne flutes from a passing member of staff. When he returns, Merlin’s leaning against a tall table, all long limbs and angular features. Arthur’s almost certain that no one has noticed the meaningful look they exchange when he passes Merlin the glass, nor the way that they prolong the brush of their hands against each other.

And no one but Arthur knows how Merlin’s touch burns, how it indelibly tattoos itself onto his knuckles. No one notices when they switch glasses, deliberately sipping from the rim where the other had just supped, tongues lapping at the champagne, eyes locked.

Unfortunately, that’s when his father finally catches up with him, and whisks him away to woo the gaggle of unfortunate girls Arthur will have to dance with this evening.

The luxurious taste of champagne lingers on his lips, like the promise of a kiss.

 

  

 “Merlin!”

Something’s blocking his view of Arthur dancing, and he bats it away.

“Merlin! Cooee! You’re away with the fairies!”

It’s Gwen, waving her hand in front of his face. Coming back to himself for a second, he blinks and smiles at her, whilst simultaneously trying to keep an eye on Arthur, who keeps making Merlin laugh by flinging sultry looks at him over his dance partner’s shoulder.

“I said, are you having fun?”

“Yeah, great,” he says, vaguely, accepting another glass of champagne.

“I’ve met this gorgeous bloke,” she says, chattering away as usual. “His name’s Lancelot. He’s going to be a doctor. It’s a fabulous name for a doctor, don’t you think? It sounds a bit like ‘lancet’! He’s just going to the loo, then we’re going to dance a bit more.”

She stands on tiptoe so that her head is in his field of view, and he has to crane his neck to see where Arthur is currently doing a comical dance, and mugging at him over his dance partner’s shoulder. The poor girl keeps turning round to see what Arthur’s looking at. Merlin can’t help laughing.

Meanwhile, Gwen’s talking. “Lancelot seems really lovely. He’s got gorgeous eyes. Talking of which, have you seen Mordred yet?”

“That’s nice.” He’s not sure what she just said. “Hmm? Mordred?” He’s confused for a second. “Oh! Him! No, not really.”

He goes back to his contemplation of Arthur’s rear end, which is now on prominent display while he waggles it at Merlin in time with the music. Saucy minx.

But Gwen’s face is in the way again. He frowns at her. “What?”

“You! What on earth is the matter with you?” She follows his line of sight just as Arthur blows Merlin an exaggerated kiss, making him blush.

“Oh!” she says, a knowing tone creeping into her voice. “I see. It’s like that. But what about Mordred? I thought you loved him?”

“I was an idiot,” says Merlin. “Mordred’s a nice enough guy, but you were right. He’s straight. What I need is someone who loves me back. What I need is someone who’s as hot for me as I am for him.”

Gwen follows his eyes again, and shakes her head. “Oh, Merlin!”

“Erm. What?” Merlin suddenly feels the need to justify himself. “He’s got a lush arse,” he says, defensively. “I’d just like to, well…. And have you seen the way he laughs? It’s like he just doesn’t care about anything. It’s the most carefree thing I have ever seen. It lights up the whole room. But then, when he stops, he gets this haunted expression in his eyes. And I just want to…” _want to fold him in my arms, dissolve under his skin, want to feel everything he feels and smooth away all the trouble, want to feel him inside, and outside, embed myself in him, and wrap him around me._

Merlin reaches into his dinner-jacket pocket and extracts his trusty notebook and pencil stub, which he takes with him wherever he goes, even to posh parties, because you never know when the muse is going to strike. Licking the end of the pencil, he scribbles down a few words. There’s no point wasting good ideas for lyrics, even if, as he’s beginning to realise, Mordred’s a crap singer and he needs a new band.

“Oh dear.” Gwen waits for him to tuck his pencil back into his pocket, then puts her drink down and tugs his hand. “Look, Lance is being ages in the loo, and you’re obviously going to be no good to talk to. Let’s dance.” From the PA he hears the unmistakable strains of “Bad Romance” starting up.

“I can’t dance to Lady Gaga! It will ruin my artistic credibility!”  Merlin’s wants to be a rock star. He can’t be seen dancing to pop legends, no matter how much he secretly admires them.

“No buts,” she says in a firm voice. “I insist.”

He feels light, jubilant and strangely reckless, and he laughs, following Gwen to the makeshift dance-floor of the marquee, dancing ridiculously, giddy with excitement, champagne and the heady intoxication of a new-found lust. A silent thread links him to Arthur, they catch each other’s eyes as they dance, separated by the crowd but linked by a secret sense.

At one point during the song he feels Arthur’s gaze boring into him, and he turns. Arrested by the expression in Arthur’s eyes, he stops for a moment and stares, a soft smile playing around the edges of his mouth.

When a slow number comes on, Gwen shrugs at him apologetically, and turns into the embrace of her returning Lancelot.

As the dance floor starts to empty, Merlin exchanges a significant look with Arthur, nods at the exit from the marquee, and without looking back he strides away, out into the dark, wondering if Arthur will follow, hoping that he will.

 

  

 

It’s all going according to plan. Sophia’s completely certain that Arthur has fallen under her spell. He seems slightly dazed this evening, presumably because of the low-cut décolletage on her gown. It’s a pale-green silk affair, which she has had made to measure, and it is rather dazzling, even if she says so herself. 

He’s been dancing with her for most of the evening, which has to be a good sign. Looking up at his flushed, handsome face, she sends him a meaningful look, reinforced with a wink and a complicated hand gesture, and, sure enough, a few minutes later, when the slow music comes on, he strides out of the marquee.

She leaves it a minute or two before following him, because it wouldn’t do to be _that_ obvious, but she can’t see him anywhere. He must have gone into the house. He wouldn’t go on the lawn, he’s too much of a gentleman for that, and besides which he must know that she’s wearing killer heels that would just get instantly mired. He must be in the house.

But why would he go in there? There’s only one reason she can think of. The sly old fox. A little forward, but she doesn’t mind.

Pausing to check the contents of her handbag, and powdering her face for good measure, she sets off as quietly as possible up the great, round wooden staircase towards the bedrooms.

She stops at Arthur’s door, and knocks gently before pressing it open. She can see, by the moonlight that streams in through the open window, that there’s a figure under the covers. A gentle stream of soft snores and snuffles emanates from beneath a pillow that obscures his face. There’s a strong smell of whisky.

Smiling, she closes and locks the door and heads to the bed, carefully pulling away the duvet to reveal a stocky, dinner-shirt-clad torso. The jacket, trousers, shoes and bow tie lie in a motley heap upon the floor.

“Mmm?” The snores stop and an enquiring hum comes from under the pillow.

“Shhh!” she says, a delightful idea occurring to her. She knows the perfect way to endear herself to Arthur for good and all. “Shhh. Don’t worry, Arthur, it’s only me, Sophia. Don’t make a sound. Let me.” With a brief chuckle at the way he clutches the pillow over his face (boys! and their games!), she starts undoing his shirt.

“Noooo!” The voice under the pillow is muffled, and a hand clings to her wrist when she tries to remove his underpants.

“Cambridge United pants, Arthur? I thought you were a cricket fan!” She pulls down the underpants with her other hand, and is rather disappointed with the result. Arthur’s obviously not in the mood after all. Little Arthur’s all limp and curled up.

“Mmm-mmm!” she can hear him say. It sounds almost like he’s saying “fuck off,” although it can’t be, obviously. Must be “more, more”.

“Well,” she says. “It must be all that champagne. And I thought you were a natural blond. Do you dye your hair?” His legs are hairier than she remembers, too, from watching him play football.  Reducing her voice to a seductive purr, she adds “Does little Arthur want a little kiss and a cuddle?” She’s just about to coax some life into little Arthur, when there’s a commotion at the door, and she can hear voices outside.

“I saw her coming in here, Father,” Morgana’s saying. “She’s up to something. She had that look in her eye.”

“What, with Arthur? But he would never be that dishonourable. I have taught him better than—”

The door bursts open. Oh no. She jumps to her feet, hand covering her mouth as if to hide the shock.

“Arthur,” she shrieks.

“Arthur? Are you all right?” Morgana’s saying.

Sophia has to admit, it doesn’t look good. She’s still fully dressed, and there’s a nearly naked figure on the bed with a pillow over his face.

Uther strides forward. “Arthur? What are you—”

He pulls the pillow from the bloke’s face, and Sophia screams at the top of her voice.

The person on the bed, who’s most definitely not Arthur, grins. “Bloody hell,” he says. “Can’t a bloke get a bit of sleep round here without some posh totty stripping his clothes off? I mean, I know these jewels are priceless, but I’d rather have some choice about who gets to slobber on them.” The nasty brute leers at her. “Although now I’ve had a butchers, I’m all up for it.”

“Sophia,” Morgana’s glaring at her. She’d never liked Sophia, had always been mean to her. “Were you trying to rape my brother?” Morgana’s saying, while Sophia continues to scream, pointing at the awful, common, vulgar, foul-mouthed chav who has been occupying Arthur’s bed.

He’s still almost naked, his shirt gathered around his scrawny chest, socks at half mast. But now he’s edging towards the window, and he’s going to escape, can’t they see?

Upon spying a single, hairy toe, protruding from one of his vile purple socks, her screams grow, if anything, louder.

“Somebody shut her up,” Uther’s saying.

But the stupid people are too busy accusing poor Sophia of awful, awful things, and she’s still screaming when, with an insolent wave, the intruder slips, shoeless, out of the window, presumably to shimmy down the drainpipe.

And that’s when Morgana slaps her.

Abruptly, Sophia shuts her mouth. Drawing herself to her full height, she glowers at the bitch, Morgana and her stupid father, removes her shoes, runs to the door, and with a quick movement of her hand smashes the fire alarm. The place erupts in noise and light. 

Dashing to the window, she leans out. She can see a pale figure streaking across the lawn to where two blokes are standing, gawping, next to an ornate ice-sculpture.

“Get him!” she shrieks at them. “Thief! Stop!”

 

 

 

When Merlin steps outside, everything is still. A lit sculpture of two dancing figures pauses, forever entwined, on the lawn. It’s as if time has stopped, and the world feels poised, tense, as if something significant, something momentous, something spectacular is about to happen. His pulse thrums loudly in his ears, so loud he can hardly hear the music through the thin canvas marquee walls. He wanders slowly past dappled pools of coloured light, onto the manicured lawn. Above him, the moon casts a silver glow, throwing the trees and ornamentation into eerie, stark relief.

He pauses to admire an intricately carved, perfectly clear ice sculpture of a stylised dragon, rearing as if to strike, which glistens, slicing the moon’s light into pale shards. As he watches, a pearl of melting water lingers on its wing-tip and drops with a faint hiss into the waiting slushy water of the drip tray, beneath. Gingerly, not wishing to damage the piece, he reaches out as if to touch it.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Arthur’s voice in his ear, purring, gravelly, and impossibly close, makes him jump nearly out of his skin. “Melts the ice. His neck’s already getting a bit thin.”

“Bloody hell! You prat!” Merlin says. His voice is embarrassingly squeaky, probably because of the way that his throat constricts at the sound of Arthur’s voice, and his heart is hammering. “It’s frowned upon, you know, creeping up on people and giving them heart failure.”

He can see Arthur now, his blond hair shining like a halo in the wan illumination provided by the distant moon and stars. When Arthur laughs, that full-bodied, unselfconscious belly laugh that makes his features come alive, moonlight caresses his golden skin, so that he appears momentarily god-like. It makes something twist in Merlin’s belly, and he can’t resist any longer. Stepping forward, he pulls Arthur towards him and gently brushes their lips together. Gasping, because the sparks that start there, the energy that thrums through his body, casting his skin into goose-bumps and making his cheeks flame, and his tongue-tip tingle, would be enough to ignite the sun, he dips his head and loses himself in that welcoming warmth.

At that moment his ears ring, as if a giant bell of joyous cosmic harmony chimes a major chord, like destiny or fate, or a riot in the heavens, so loud Merlin thinks the whole world must hear it.

They’re close, so close. He’s overwhelmed by a feeling of heat, of building excitement that thrills him and scares him. They break the kiss for a moment, chests heaving as if from exertion as they regard each other. Arthur’s eyes look huge and vulnerable, his bow tie adrift and hair messy. His lips seem dark and bruised; Merlin, desperate to feel them on him again, hears himself let out an embarrassing whimper, needy and confused.

“How did you—?” he starts to say.

“Was that—?” Arthur’s saying at the same time.

They laugh.

“Wow,” says Arthur. “Do you have this effect on everyone you kiss?”

“You felt it too?” says Merlin. He feels like he’s just run a marathon. His heart is racing and his pulse rushing in his ears. “I don’t know. I mean… what effect did I have?”

Arthur lets out a laugh that’s more of a huff. “Well,” he says, swallowing, his voice sounding all thick. “It was a bit like… you know! Hitting six sixes off one over. Or, or scoring a century. At Lords. Against Australia. And winning the Ashes for England. All at once. Pretty heady stuff.”

The determined, brooding expression in Arthur’s face raises goose-bumps on Merlin’s flesh.

 

Merlin thinks he might be ruined. Arthur with his blissed-out eyes, and his rough-hewn jaw, his pent-up emotions and his cricketing analogies, has totally wrecked Merlin’s chances of ever pulling anyone again, because he’ll always be comparing them to this one, perfect bloke on this one, perfect night.

He pulls Arthur to him again and nuzzles at his neck, breathing his scent, cologne mixed with a sweet ripeness that fills him with exhilaration. “I don’t even know how to bowl.”

“I could teach you,” says Arthur, voice low and intent. “You’ll be the best damn spin bowler this side of Norwich when I’m done with you.”

“Sounds kinky,” says Merlin, with a pursed-lip nod that turns into a laugh. They’re both sniggering, now, so that Arthur’s tensing and juddering under Merlin’s hands. Merlin can feel his musculature, the sheer animal presence of him under his fingertips, and he wants more. “I’ll do it though,” Merlin says. “I’ll learn how to I’ll bowl you out, and… and…” he racks his brains for things he knows about cricket. “I’ll have you for tea at the end of the innings. And then I’ll take you home and eat you with jam and clotted cream.”

“Is that a promise?”

“I will,” says Merlin, smiling. “I will. I swear.”

They rest their foreheads together for a moment, heat passing between them at the point of contact like a vow.

The gentle drip-drip of glistening melt-water from the ice-dragon into the waiting, slushy melt-tray is like a murmur of approval.

But the harmonious moment is abruptly forgotten when a discordant alarm jangles. Harsh security lights flood the lawns. They spring apart.

“What?” Arthur says, puzzled, gazing around and about.

“Arthur? What’s going on?” says Merlin at the same time.

“I’ve no idea,” says Arthur with an apologetic shrug “I think it’s the alarm. There must be an intruder.”

Shouts and squeals are coming from the house. A pale, bare figure streaks towards them. A piercing screech rends the air.

“Get him!” yells a strident, female voice from the house. “Stop! Thief!”

Dodging the security light which floods the lawn, the streaker swerves in Merlin's direction. As he approaches, Merlin realises that it’s a bloke, clad only in socks, which bunch around his ankles as he runs. With a sinking feeling, he recognises him. 

He’d know that stocky, hairy-arsed figure anywhere.

It’s Will.

“Come on Merlin, don’t just stand there with your mouth open, you fish-faced pillock!” says Will. He’s got a gleeful grin on his face. “Drop your fucking blond, grad totty and let’s get the fuck out of here and get pissed.” Catching hold of Merlin’s shoulder, he half-drags him across the lawn. “Can you lend me some pants? Some crazy bint stole all my sodding clothes.”

Horrified, Merlin tries to catch Arthur’s eye, but he’s staring at Will, open-mouthed.

“What the fuck, Will?” Merlin manages to extricate himself from Will’s grasp for a moment. “How the hell have you—where are your fucking clothes? Where are your sodding shoes? Of course I haven’t got any fucking spare pants.”

“Thieves! Murderers! Rapists! Gatecrashers! Townies!” the woman’s voice shrieks. “Get them! Get them!”

“Will, tell me you didn’t—” Merlin can’t believe this is happening. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Course I bloody didn’t. She’s a bloody liar,” says Will. Turning, so that his family jewels are on full display for the security cameras that are swivelling his way from the house, he yells “You’re the one who took my sodding clothes off, Sophia! I was fast a-bloody-sleep, you cow.”

“You were on Arthur’s bed, you… you… bloody chav!” She’s yelling, shrilly. Merlin can just see a tangle of dark, strawberry blond hair retreating into an upper-floor window. “I nearly… I could have... thought you were… just leave, and never come back.”

“You’d better go,” Arthur says, his voice full of quiet amusement. “Looks like your friend is in quite a jam. Quite apart from the fact that he’s saved me from Sophia’s predations! Quick, you go and hide in the bushes over there, and I’ll try to distract them all until you can sort him out with some pants. Look out, now here they come…” he turns away from them, jogging towards the house, waving and pointing in a different direction entirely. “Wait! Father! I think they went over there!”

People are streaming out of the marquee now, yelling, and Arthur sends them all off in different directions, buying them time. Will tugs at Merlin’s arm, pulling him towards the tangle of rhododendron bushes that surround the lawn. So much for romance, thinks Merlin grimly. A bramble scrapes at his nose as he joins Will in the shrubbery, heart sinking as he wonders if he’ll ever see Arthur again.

He sighs and strips off his trousers, and boxers, handing the latter to Will, who snatches them gratefully while Merlin struggles back into his trousers. This is no mean feat in the dark, with the people of the house searching for them, not to mention the champagne and adrenaline still surging through his veins. So he’s not to be blamed when he falls flat on his face into a pile of mud.

There’s a sudden crack from the lawn. Looking up, Merlin sees the ice-dragon’s head slip elegantly from its shoulders, tumbling to the ground, flying into splinters of shattered moonlight.

 

 

**Later That Night**

**Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_In sweet music is such art, killing care or grief of heart_

_~Henry VIII, William Shakespeare_

 

“Fucking night, eh!” says Will, slumped on his bed and taking a sip of whisky out of the bottle he keeps under the bed. “Want a bit?”

“No.”

“Don’t bloody sulk, Merlin, you moody twat. You’d only just met him.”

“Sod off, Will. I’m not in the mood.”

“We must have looked a right pair, eh?” says Will, ignoring Merlin as usual. “In them bushes, swopping clothes, trolleys round our ankles. That couple shagging in the rhododendrons must have thought we were bloody benders, no offence meant, Merlin. Hey, did you hear them at it? Bloody hell. Randy little—” There’s a pause; Merlin assumes Will’s busy filing that nugget for later consideration. “And then walking home—”

They’d walked home all the way home from bloody Grantchester, Merlin, commando, wearing the trousers and shirt, and Will with only Merlin’s underpants and jacket to cover his modesty. By the time they got home it was well gone two in the morning, and Merlin was freezing, and knackered, not to mention heartsick, but oh, no, they can’t go to sleep, because bloody Will has a bottle of whisky, and bloody Will insists on carrying on talking.

“You were lucky she didn’t press charges,” says Merlin.

“She was lucky I didn’t press charges,” says Will, defensively. He takes another swig. “She bloody assaulted me!”

“You were in someone else’s bed, Will.”

“Yeah? Well, I reckon she were up to something.” He swigs from the bottle again, wiping his mouth with his hand. “Kept calling me Arthur. I mean, what would she be doing stripping this bloke called Arthur? She was after shagging this Arthur bloke, all right, and didn’t give a toss whether he was interested or not.”

“For fuck’s sake, will you shut _up_ , Will! I’m trying to sleep!”

“I reckon that’s why they stopped looking for us. She got in this Arthur bloke’s bed, and found my perfect booty in there, and just couldn’t resist. They probably thought she was bonkers, got her arrested and carted off to the loony bin. Hey, weren’t that your posh, blond totty’s name? Arthur, I mean?”

Merlin doesn’t bother replying. Instead he turns over, puts the pillow over his head, and tries to zone out Will’s chat.

It hurts, thinking about Arthur. It hurts, because he didn’t know, he didn’t know that Arthur lived in the house, didn’t know the party was for him, not ‘til afterwards, when he and Will had pieced it all together, and it would hurt his mum if he wound up with someone like that, he knows it would, and yes Arthur was posh, and a prat, but there was something about him, some aura of kindness, decency, and a desire to do the right thing, old-fashioned chivalry, something like that that made him shine so brightly, Merlin could not imagine ever seeing someone else in the same way.

And of course, the charge that they shared, that secret and enigmatic feeling that passed through Merlin’s skin and into the core of him, has changed him, filled him with something new.

Sighing, he gives up trying to sleep, sits up and tosses his pillow at Will, who’s still talking, mainly under his breath, now, but Merlin can pick out phrases like “bet the girl were fit,” and “you had the best view, bloody waste if you ask me”. He extracts his acoustic guitar from under his bed, and softly he starts to pick out chords and fit them to a new song.

“ _I’ll dissolve_ ,” he sings.

 

 

 

> _“I’ll dissolve under his skin._
> 
> _I’ll always be there._
> 
> _I’ll feel everything... he feels_
> 
> _and smooth away all the trouble._
> 
> _I’ll feel him inside, and outside,_
> 
> _embed myself in him,_
> 
> _and wrap him around me._
> 
> _And he’ll never forget.”_

 

Will’s rolling his eyes. “You’re a sentimental bloody wanker,” he says while Merlin stops to work on the chord changes in the fourth line. “Why didn’t you just get his bleeding phone number?”

“Because I was too busy saving your naked arse, you bastard,” says Merlin without heat.

The song’s good, though. He tries out some major chords, and thinks about introducing a middle eight. There’s a muffled thud on the other side of the thin wall; their next-door neighbour, Cedric, no doubt, moaning about the racket.

Will thumps the wall back. “This is art, you prick!” he shouts.

Cedric’s no angel; while they were growing up, he often woke both boys up on school nights with the muffled sounds of his alcohol-filled rages, aimed at whatever hapless partner he happened to be bedding at the time.

Ignoring the thuds, Cedric’s complaints, and Will’s increasingly obscene retorts, Merlin wraps his heartbreak and loss in the music for a little while.

 

 

**Michaelmas term**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_My policy on cake is pro having it and pro eating it_

_~Boris Johnson, Mayor of London_

 

The bed-maker on Arthur’s staircase is a massive improvement on last year’s.

“Morning, Mr Pendragon,” she says, head round the door. “Mind if I come in and change the beds, do a bit of cleaning?

He’s up early, working on some problems for his upcoming supervision with Dr Monmouth, and he gazes at her blearily.

“Not at all, Alice.” His father has always taught him that serving staff are just common people, that they don’t want to be his friend, and that he should be civil, but distant with them. But recently, ever since he met Merlin, who he knows is as common as they come, he works on a kebab stall, for heaven’s sake, he’s really struggled to see them as staff; he can’t help seeing them as people. Merlin has turned Arthur’s world upside down in many ways, even though they’ve only spent a few fleeting moments together. “How’s the old trouble?”

“Not so bad, Mr Pendragon, thank you for asking.” She looks up from where she’s stripping his bed, and trains kind eyes on him. “Did you eat that lemon drizzle cake?”

“Call me Arthur, please. Mr Pendragon is my father.” Well, strictly speaking it’s ‘Professor Pendragon’ now, but Arthur does not mention that. “And it was delicious, thank you.”

She simpers at the praise. “I’m making coffee-and-walnut next time,” she says. “I’ll smuggle you a slice in.” She winks at him.

“That’s too kind, Alice, really.”

“It’s no trouble for a handsome, polite young man like you, Mr Pendragon.” She steps out, arms full of bedclothes, pulling the door behind her with a gentle click.

It’s not the most prestigious staircase in the college; it’s not in one of the touristy courtyards with their whispering cloisters or flying buttresses. Instead it’s tucked away in a quiet corner, far from the prying eyes of porters and tourists alike, which suits Arthur.

Turning back to his desk, he settles into his day’s work. He’s got to get as much done as possible before cricket practice.

When he gets to the College cricket ground, he’s the first at the changing room, for a very important reason, above and beyond the fact that it’s his first practice as Captain of the men’s team. He’s pleased to note that the rest of the team trickle in well before the official start time, keen to get their hands on bat and ball, although there’s always a chance that they could have got wind of what he’s got planned. Bloody Cenred better not have let the cat out of the bag.

At any rate, when Gwaine comes in, late as usual, flicking his hair, everyone else is already there. They greet him with a slow-handclap.

“Nice of you to join us, Greene,” says Arthur. He’s struggling to keep the anticipation out of his voice, but he manages it.

Gwaine shrugs. “Had a lovely girl in my room,” he says, nonchalantly. “Couldn’t really rush things.”

“Had a lovely girl in my room, _Captain_ ,” says Arthur with a mock frown. It’s the first practice, and he knows that the rest of the team will be expecting him to assert his authority as Captain of the team.

Rolling his eyes, Gwaine mumbles “Captain Arsehole,” and while the team struggle into their cricket whites, wanders over to his locker to grab the bag he keeps his cricket bat in.

There’s a pause while the rest of the team exchange expectant smirks.

“What the fuck?” Gwaine turns, holding up a parsnip that’s been carved in the shape of a cock and balls. There’s a loud guffaw from Lance, and a click from Leon, who’s been poised to capture the moment with a camera. “You wankers. Where’s my bloody cricket bat?”

Arthur can’t help it. Snorting, he doubles over in laughter. It had taken him ages to sort through all the vegetables in Sainsbury’s until he found a large enough parsnip, and he had a couple of failed attempts, but it has been well worth it. Gwaine’s face is so red it’s almost purple, and the whole team is in tears.

“All right, all right,” says Gwaine, rolling his eyes. “Very funny, you’re a bunch of gits and I hate you all.” He narrows his eyes and turns to Arthur. “Now, Arthur, you absolute bastard, where’s my bloody cricket bat?”

As he extracts the missing cricket bat from his locker, Arthur doesn’t miss the speculative glint in Gwaine’s eye. Arthur had better watch his step. Gwaine’s not known for letting the ball through to the keeper; he’ll get his revenge, Arthur would put money on it.

He and Arthur have been exchanging pranks since they were snotty-nosed, short-trousered urchins at their first preparatory school, after all. It would be a shame to stop now.

He’s almost looking forward to finding out what Gwaine cooks up.

 

 

**One Sunday, Early in Michaelmas Term**

**Avalon College, Cambridge**

_This above all – to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man._

_~Hamlet, William Shakespeare_

 

“He still isn’t talking to you, then?” Arthur’s munching a chocolate hob-nob and idly scanning an elderly copy of _Varsity_.

Morgana shrugs, pouring the tea. Sunlight glistens on the new ball-ring piercing inside her ear.

It makes him squint so he can get a closer look.

She’s frowning at him. “It’s called a Tagus piercing,” she says. “Stop staring at it, little brother. You’re freaking me out.”

“Has Father seen it yet?” He stuffs another chocolate hob-nob into his mouth, with a satisfied hum.

“No. You’d better not have any more of those, you’ll get fat.”

“Piss off. I am not. Fat.” Arthur deliberately grabs another one before she can whisk the packet away. “Anyway, don’t be fattist. And stop distracting me. Father’s going to go ape when he sees.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” she says. “It’s no business of his whether I choose to decorate my body, just as it’s up to me if I choose to date women. I’m done with his bullshit.” 

“Obviously.” He sighs, frowning into the mug of tea she hands him.

“So, what’s eating you, then, little brother?” She’s sitting with one leg crossed underneath her, training those perceptive green eyes of hers on him.

“What? Nothing. I’m fine.”

She rustles the half-empty hob-nob at him, accusingly. “You could have fooled me. I haven’t had to open a second packet of chocolate hob-nobs since that time when Father caught you wanking in the boat house.”

He shudders. “Don’t ever speak of that again!”

They laugh, but she’s still giving him that narrowed-eye gimlet stare.

He sighs again. “Morgana, you dated Leon, once. I mean, you haven’t always been… what I’m trying to say is, when do you think you knew you were, batting from the pavilion end? You know what I mean?”

“Let’s just assume for one moment that I don’t.” When her voice goes all sharp like that It makes him wince.

“What I’m trying to say is, what was it that made you think… this is it. I like girls, now? Was it a sudden thing? Like, one minute, Brad Pitt, next minute – pouf!” He splays his hands out as if doing a magic spell. “Angelina Jolie? Or was it like… I don’t know. More of a gradual, dawning sense of… Angelina.”

She rests a hand on his knee, which he stills. He hasn’t realised he’s been jiggling it. Her eyes have that soft expression in them, which people who don’t know her better find sweet and beguiling, but which he knows is just the preface to some sort of devastating insight into his psyche that he really does not want to hear. He scowls, in expectation.

“Arthur,” she says.

Oh no. Here it comes. “Oh, just forget it,” he says, standing up, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and pacing around the room to avoid having to meet her eyes.

“Arthur,” she says again. “I can’t help noticing that you’ve been running away from all the girls Father throws at you. You haven’t even kissed any of them. They’re all very pretty girls, Arthur. At first I thought it was fear of commitment, but it isn’t, is it?”

Swallowing, he rests his forehead on the cold pane of her leaded window, gazing out onto the quiet lawns, below, and shakes his head. On the other side of the courtyard, one of the college gardeners is pruning the roses. He often finds himself envying the college staff for their quiet, stress-free lives. How nice it must be just to hop on a bike to work, and spend the day surrounded by the scent of roses. No parental expectations to live up to, no evil witch of a sister to flay him with devastating insights, no exams: just the rhythmic click of the secateurs, and a healthy respect for thorns.

“Not entirely, no,” he admits, his voice quiet. He turns to her and looks at her straight, as a Pendragon should. “I’m batting on a bit of a sticky wicket, I’m afraid. Because I… well. The fact is I have known for some time that… that… I am not, erm, completely…” He clears his throat. “Straight.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper. “And then, well, there’s someone. Someone... totally unsuitable.  Unthinkable. Only, I can’t… can’t stop. Thinking about him, that is.”

“Don’t tell me he’s a footballer,” she says, smiling. “Or, or a Guardian reader. Or – I know, he’s a Nat. Sci.?”

“It’s worse than that,” he says, biting his lip.

“Even worse than a Nat. Sci.? Good heavens, Arthur, what kind of a sub-humanoid being are you—”

“He’s a townie,” Arthur blurts out, to put an end to this painful speculation.

She’s staring at him, now, mouth open at the gravity of his revelation.

“Oh no,” she says, eventually, shaking her head. “You’ve really done it this time, Arthur. He really is going to go ape.”

Silently, she passes him the rest of the packet of Hob-Nobs.

 

 

**Some Boring Sunday Afternoon in Michaelmas Term**

**Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_A boy like that will give you sorrow. You'll meet another boy tomorrow, one of your own kind, stick to your own kind._

_~West Side Story, Leonard Bernstein_

 

It’s very easy to think that the world’s ganging up on you when you live with Hunith and Will. They’re like bloody Holmes and Watson.

Will’s playing good cop. “You needed another band, yeah, but not a bunch of fucking grads, Merlin.” He pats Merlin on the arm.

“I’m not planning to—”

“He’s right. You need to be more careful, Merlin,” his mother adds. She’s Muhammed Ali, his mum. She floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee. “You’re too easily taken in. The university blokes may be nice-looking and all, but these posh public-school types are all screwed up. Terrified of commitment, you see. It’s the effect of being sent away to boarding school at such a young age. They’ll suck you dry and then cast you out without a thought. And guess who’ll have to pick up the pieces, as usual?”

Giving the oven a final, extra-vigorous scrub, she slams it shut with such force that it makes Merlin jump, and pulls off her marigold gloves with a snap.

“But mum! This band’s—”

“Pink Floyd never sold out and picked up sodding grads for their line-up,” says Will. The two of them, his mum and his foster brother, both stand glaring at Merlin, eyes hard and accusing, hands on hips. “You know, after bloody Syd Barrett went off his rocker, you didn’t hear Roger Waters say to David sodding Gilmour, you know what we need in this band? We need a fucking grad.”

“I’m not bloody selling out! And my band’re not going to fucking seduce me, they’re all lesb—”

“Language, Merlin,” says his mum. The shocked, hurt expression on her face makes something snap inside him.

“Bloody hell, mum,” Furious, he launches to his feet, and turns his back on them to hide the way his eyes prickle. “How come you bawl me out for swearing when every other word Will says is ‘fuck’?”

Leaning on the sink, he clenches his teeth in frustration, and kicks the rickety cupboard door under it. It falls, groaning, from its hinges to the floor with a clatter.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from his mother.

“Merlin!” She scurries over to the sink, worrying at the cupboard door. “How’m I going to pay for that? It’s going to cost—”

“I’ve had enough!” he yells, slamming both fists onto the work surface with an abrupt thud, so that his mum is momentarily silenced. Damn, that feels good. It feels good to let out all the resentment that he’s been bottling up for weeks, ever since Arthur kissed him and made his world explode. “I’ve had enough of you two carping at me. I’m eighteen, not eight, and I’ll be the judge of who I play music with, who I bloody snog, and what I fucking say.”

He gathers up his precious guitar from the floor of the kitchen, ignoring their protests. Merlin’s not going to allow them to guilt-trip him into missing this opportunity.

Stumbling out of the kitchen, he slings his guitar onto his back and grabs his bike from the hallway. He makes extra sure to bang the door as hard as he can on his way out, and that feels good too. Sod them both. He’s going to make his own way.

The self-righteous anger is enough to sustain him all the way to the rehearsal rooms at Essetir College, where his new band is waiting for him.

Their lead singer, Elena, has messy blond hair, dyed pink, held back with an untidy black bandanna.. She sings like an angel, plays the drums like Nick Mason, belches like Shrek, or rather, when he thinks about it, Princess Fiona, and swears more obscenely than Will. Merlin already adores her.

When they settle into the first, clashing chords of “Genital Riot,” he feels a sense of exhilaration building. He hadn’t known that he needed to play frenetic, lesbian thrash-metal to calm his soul until today, but this… it feels like magic.

 

 

**Later That Michaelmas Term**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_The man that hath no music in himself,_

_nor is moved with concord of sweet sounds,_

_is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils._

_Th_ _e motions of his spirit are dull as night,_

_and his affections dark as Erebus._

_Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music._

_~The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare_

 

When Morgana came to Arthur’s room, earlier that evening, and dragged him away from his contemplation of the Cayley-Hamilton theorem, she assured him that he wouldn’t regret coming to the LGBT society disco in the College bar.

He’s surprised to find that she’s right. He can’t see the band from here, where the doorman stamps his hand and takes his cash, but their peculiar combination of angry, grinding guitars, frenetic drums and almost-in-tune screaming fills him with a strange energy. Without thought, he finds his head starting to nod to the beat.

Morgana’s yelling in his ear, but he can’t hear a word she’s saying. He bends, and she shouts again, “let’s go up to the front,” and then there’s something about the drummer.

He grins and agrees, because the great thing about hearing a band in the College bar is that you can get so close to the performers that you can smell their sweat. The music’s driving all thought out of his head. Before he knows it, they’re elbowing their way through the pogo-ing crowds, right to the front where he finds himself standing and staring, an island of immobility in a seething sea of heaving bodies.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Morgana’s screeching in his ear. With a sudden shock, he realises that she’s talking about their old family friend, Elena, who’s thrashing away at the drums with all four limbs like some sort of demented Muppet. She somehow manages both to sing and to wink at Morgana without dropping a single beat. He has no idea how someone’s brain could compartmentalise so efficiently as to do all those different things at once, and he files that thought away under “respect” before returning to the other matter that has rendered him thunderstruck.

Because there, less than two metres away, is a vision of black-haired, high-cheekboned rebellion that takes his breath away. Clad in skinny, ripped, black drainpipe jeans that leave nothing to the imagination, battered black Doc Martens, and a black, sleeveless tour t-shirt that reveals part of a tattoo, peeping out at his shoulder, Merlin is yelling furiously into the microphone with his eyes closed. His hands stab moodily at a black, electric guitar, which is startlingly decorated with a scarlet dragon motif.

As Arthur watches, the music segues into a neat guitar riff, and Merlin bites his lip in concentration while long, skilful fingers skitter across the strings. Building to a climax, Merlin leans back, hips thrusting forwards and upwards at the guitar, in a crescendo of crashing chords that makes Arthur’s heart want to burst out of his rib cage.

He’s so close that Arthur can see the individual beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. He’s surprised the entire room hasn’t stopped dancing to point and laugh at his erection.

It’s not until the music stops, and Merlin’s wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, that he notices Arthur standing there. Arthur can see the precise moment when Merlin’s eyes widen in shock, and his lips part as if to speak.

 

“Thank you!” Elena’s saying over the PA to the audience that’s whooping and yelling for more. “We’re gonna have a change of tone now, and our amazing guitarist, Merlin, is gonna sing for you and let me have a bit of a rest. You’re gonna love his magical voice! Let’s hear it for Merlin!”

While the crowd whoops and yells, Merlin looks away from Arthur, and smiles at Elena. “Thanks, Elena,” he says into the mic. “Well, hi there to all the LGBT group members. We’ve been Rainbow Thrash. Thanks for inviting us to sing for you tonight.”

Arthur finds his pulse quickening just at the sound of Merlin speaking.

Merlin takes off his electric guitar, and his black t-shirt rides up just a little, exposing a line of pale skin. This glimpse of the enticing V of Merlin’s abdominal muscles, and the fine trail of dark hairs leading down from his navel towards his tantalisingly tight jeans, makes Arthur’s fingers twitch involuntarily.

“Thank you,” Merlin’s saying, again, softly to the applauding crowd while he pulls on an acoustic guitar and strums a few chords. “This song is… well, I wrote it for someone I kissed, in a garden, not long ago. It’s for him. Unfortunately I had to run out on him before we could exchange numbers. Anyway, I hope he likes it as much as I liked him. It’s called ‘Dissolve’.” He’s looking straight at Arthur when he speaks, and Arthur’s mouth goes dry.

Those elegant fingers are working all the while, with delicate twangs and tweaks on the tuning pegs. When Merlin starts to play, he caresses the neck and strings of the guitar gently, as if touching a lover.

Arthur imagines the glide of those strong, sure fingers on his skin, how Merlin would play him, the sounds Merlin would pull from him with each gentle pluck, and he can hardly breathe. He’s never felt chills scuttling up and down his spine before. His focus narrows and he gazes, rapt while Merlin sings words that somehow speak straight to his soul.

When the song finishes there’s a moment of complete silence and then a surge of noise as the crowd responds with enthusiastic cheers and applause to Merlin’s shy bow. Arthur has to blink a few times when the lights are switched on.

At the end of the performance, the crowds thrust their way to the bar, and Arthur steps forward, Morgana at his side. She and Elena disappear with the rest of the band into some sort of female-only huddle, and Arthur’s left with Merlin, who’s putting his guitars back into their cases.

“So,” he says, casting about for things to say.

“Well,” Merlin’s saying at the same time, and they laugh.

Merlin’s got that wild, exuberant look, that infectious air of breathless, keyed-up excitement.

Arthur recognises it. It’s what the cricket team look like when they’ve just won an important match. It makes Merlin’s eyes shine an intense blue in the suddenly dazzling light, and his cheeks glow. He probably feels like he’s flying.

“Wow! That was so much fun. Did it sound OK? How did you enjoy the gig? The crowd were great, weren’t they? I’ve not played to that many people before.” Merlin laughs again, as if in sheer joy, raking his hair with a sweaty hand. It sticks up, black and jagged, making him seem taller. “Fuck! I had no idea you’d... What did you think? Do you like lesbian thrash metal? Never expected to see you here!”

“Well,” says Arthur, clearing his throat, because, fuck! The combination of Merlin’s smile, his outfit, his breathlessness, his exuberance, the sheer overpowering delight that radiates from him, well, it is pretty devastating, and it has rendered Arthur temporarily speechless. “Ahem! Well.” He casts around for words. “It was all right, I suppose! Better than a poke in the eye with a cricket stump!” He winces inwardly at his own inability to articulate, and decides to go for a witty riposte. “A lesbian band, Merlin. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Fuck. He can’t do witty ripostes, not when all the blood’s exited his brain and headed south, nudged past his bollocks, and congregated in his dick, making it throb with excitement.

“I’m not a girl, if that’s what you mean!” Merlin’s busying himself with the other guitar now, and when he bends to pick it up, the view this offers of his arse does not improve Arthur’s discomfort in the underpant region one bit.

Merlin sees him watching, and straightens, still holding the guitar, with a half-smile. “What?”

Casting about for an excuse to be ogling Merlin’s behind, Arthur’s gaze alights on the guitar. “That’s an unusual instrument – may I?” He stretches out a hand, and Merlin instinctively snatches the guitar away, and then colours, as if realising he’s being rude, before gingerly offering it for inspection.

Arthur takes it—carefully, because it obviously means a lot to Merlin—and racks his brains for an informed comment.

“Er. It’s. Erm. Very nice,” he says, wincing at his own inarticulacy. “Nice colour. Nice dragon.” Behind the frets, initials are etched onto its neck. “Who’s BN?” he says, as he hands it back.

Thankfully, Merlin doesn’t seem too put out by how ill-informed Arthur is about guitars.

“Thanks. It’s a custom Fender, one of the best instruments you can get” he says, proudly, tilting his head as his lips quirk up on one side. “My mum’s had it for years—since before I was born. I think it was my da… I mean, I think it was given to her. But they’re not her initials, and she doesn’t play. I don’t know what they stand for; she’s never told me.”

Arthur can tell they’re skirting around something that Merlin doesn’t want to go into right now.

“That’s good. I, I mean… Anyway… That song. Erm...” says Arthur. He wants to ask if it was for him, but the words won’t come out, and when he looks up, trying to think of the words, he catches Morgana’s curious eyes on him, and he feels heat on his cheeks. “I, I mean, not bad,” he says, instead, wincing internally at his own inadequacy.

“Yeah?” Merlin leans over so that Arthur can feel his breath warm on his neck. “I wrote it for you, you know.”

Well, that answers his question neatly.

“Yeah?” There’s a slight tremor in his voice; hopefully Merlin doesn’t notice.

“Yeah. I was going to call it ‘nice arse, for a posh prat,’ but it didn’t quite fit with the tone of the music.” Merlin breaks off into a long peal of laughter, and punches Arthur on his arm.

The surprised guffaw that this quip tugs out of Arthur makes his whole body shake.

Merlin smiles back at him, a mischievous, music-fuelled sort of joyful grin that fills his eyes with mirth and Arthur’s brain with sinful, depraved thoughts.

A rowdy party has just entered the bar, and the noise levels go up a few decibels.

“Listen,” Arthur starts to say, leaning forward to be heard above the din. “I’d like to buy you a drink. Would you… I mean, do you mind if you… can you give me your number?”

Merlin’s staring at him, frowning.

Arthur wonders if he’s said something wrong. “Please?”

Merlin bites his lip. “My mum will kill me, you know,” he says, eyeing Arthur coyly through his lashes. “She’s convinced that you lot…” he nods his head towards the noisy group of lads over by the bar “will just chew me up and spit me out.”

“Your mum is a very sensible lady,” says Arthur, feeling his temporary brain-freeze gradually thaw, and his lips curl upwards. “It’s actually true. The Cambridge University male is renowned for his cannibalistic tendencies. For example, if my father hears I’ve asked out another bloke, let alone one who isn’t studying here, he will actually chew me up and spit me out. Fact.”

“I don’t blame him,” says Merlin softly, eyes raking Arthur’s body appreciatively. “I could happily gobble you up, right now, myself.”

Arthur feels himself blushing to his boots. “Can’t say I’d object,” he says, his mouth unaccountably dry, so he has to lick his lips, and he can’t help the way blood surges to his groin when he sees Merlin drop his gaze down to watch.

But unfortunately that’s when the noise from the crowd gets louder.

The bubble of quiet that they’ve draped around themselves is abruptly pierced by Cenred’s sarcastic voice.

“God, the music’s terrible in this place. Bloody hell,” Cenred says in a sneery voice. “Is that the fucking townie git that works on the kebab stall? In a lezzer band? Never knew he was a turd-burglar.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Fucking great. He’s just getting somewhere, finally, with the bloke who’s been occupying his thoughts and fantasies for months, who’s, as it happens, even more fucking gorgeous than he even remembers, who seems more than a little interested in returning to that highly intriguing kiss they’d shared in the moonlight at the party, and who plays his guitar like he’s bloody well making love to it, when in walks that bloody big-mouthed twat, Cenred, and his harem of vultures.

“Don’t be such a rude, arrogant, homophobic arsehole,” says Arthur, shoving Cenred hard in the sternum so that he staggers backwards into a few of his mates. “Fuck you, Cenred. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Suddenly, he realises that it’s gone quiet in the room, and the entire population of the bar is watching them.

“Sod off,” he adds. “If I find you using abusive, homophobic language again, you’ll find yourself last in to bat. Permanently. And if I think you’re bad for team morale, you’ll be off the fucking team quicker than a fast bowl on a dry wicket. Arsehole.”

Cenred’s eyes narrow to spiteful slits. “You’d better watch that potty mouth of yours, Pendragon. You and I might end up being related, one of these days, when that pretty sister of yours settles down.”

“You’re bloody delusional if you think Morgana would ever stoop so low as to marry a twat like you,” says Arthur.

“Oh yeah? I think your father might have something to say about that!” says Cenred archly.

“God. Would you listen to yourself? You sound like a bloody child. Fuck off, I’d rather talk to an adult.” Suddenly tired of all Cenred’s crap, Arthur turns to resume his conversation with Merlin.

But Merlin has disappeared.

Arthur’s heart plummets through the soles of his Oxfords. He’s still not got Merlin’s number. 

 

 

**Meanwhile**

**Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_I realized this is what God has dealt me, and I should be thankful, considering all that happened to me in my life, but MS caused the movies to stop, stop dead, and I miss it._

_~Richard Pryor_

 

“At bloody last.” Will’s face is closed off, narrow-eyed and mutinous. He looks stressed and tired.

Merlin feels a black cloud of guilt washing over him.  “I came as quickly as I could, Will!” It’s true. He hurtled out of that bar and onto his bike as soon as he saw Will’s text.  He still hasn’t got Arthur’s number, he doesn’t know if he will ever see him again. Warring feelings of guilt and resentment crowd out any remaining euphoria from the success of his gig.

Will’s still yelling at him in whispered hisses. “I’ve been calling you for fucking hours!”

“I was at a gig! I had my phone switched off, and anyway I wouldn’t have heard anything! What happened?”

Will’s voice is tense and anxious; his shoulders and jaw are set in angry, parallel horizontal lines. “Her vision’s been blurry all day. We was in the shops when she went all dizzy-like, then she started shaking, then she fell over, like I said in my text.”

Merlin can hear the worry in his voice. He breathes in sharply. “Where is she now?” These episodes are becoming more frequent. It’s not like the doctors hadn’t told them this would happen, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“Made me help her to bed.”

“Don’t you think we should get her to Addenbrooke’s?”

“I don’t bloody know! She said no, she said it’s happened before, it’s no use, take her to bloody clinic tomorrow, that’s all.” Will bangs the wobbly worktop in frustration, so that all the cutlery in the drawer makes a crashing sound. “You’ll have to take her, Merlin, I’ve got no cash, and it’s Saturday tomorrow. It’s the busiest day on the van.” He looks at his watch. “Today.” He sighs. And now I’m bloody going out. I’m going for a fucking walk. I just need to clear my head.”

True to his word, he stalks, out, slamming the flimsy front door, leaving Merlin in the kitchen, which is still in need of repair from his fit of temper the other day.

Steeling himself, Merlin tiptoes up the stairs. “Mum?” he whispers, gently pushing open the door. She’s sleeping, her breathing shallow and even, exhausted black rims under her eyes. She looks so fragile as he smoothes her hair out of her eyes. It’s like she’s slipping away from him.

“Mum,” he whispers, tears pricking at his eyes, because, she’s been doing so great, for months now, sometimes he almost forgets about it, and then, fuck, it comes back like this, as if to say, I haven’t gone away, you know, I’m never going away. This illness is so fucking unfair. “Mum, my gig was great. I really feel like I’m going somewhere, you know. You would have been proud of me, I know.” He swallows, and sits on the bed. “Mum, I swear I’m going to make it big, be a big time star, and I’ll make so much fuc—so much money, I’m going to plough it into the Cambridge myelin repair centre, you know like JK Rowling did at that Edinburgh clinic, and one day, I promise, one day we’ll find a fuc—find a cure. Just hang on in there, mum. Just hang on.” She sleeps on, her face tilting slightly into his hand, and for a while, he’s the one with the blurry vision.

He knows it’s not her fault. He knows it can’t be. But he’s been pushing at her, frustrated by the ties of love and duty that shackle him, and the guilt doesn’t go away.

When Will finally comes back in, Merlin’s already in his own bed, with his face to the wall, and if his shoulders are shaking, Will doesn’t mention it.

 

 

**Monday Morning**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_You have two sides, one out in the field and one in._

_Each man that's in the side that's in goes out, and when he's out he comes in and the next man goes in until he's out. When they are all out, the side that's out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those coming in, out._

_S_ _ometimes you get men still in and not out._

_When a man goes out to go in, the men who are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes in and the next man in goes out and goes in._

_There are two men called umpires who stay all out all the time and they decide when the men who are in are out. When both sides have been in and all the men have been out, and both sides have been out twice after all the men have been in, including those who are not out, that is the end of the game!_

_~The Rules Of Cricket, As Told To A Foreigner (Anon)_

 

Arthur groans and buries his head under his pillow. He’s not entirely sure what being a bed-maker entails, but he’s pretty sure that “waking up everyone on the staircase at 6am by having a screeching match” is not part of the official job description.

“No, Hilda!” Alice is saying in a slightly shrill voice to one of her colleagues. “I do _not_ want to swap staircases with you. I don’t know how you manage to upset all your students. I have never had any trouble on _my_ staircase! They’re all perfectly polite ladies and gentlemen.”

Arthur can’t hear the other part of the conversation, and he bloody well wishes that he can’t hear Alice’s half either. It’s been a pretty frustrating few days, and he wants to go back to brooding about the fact that Elena’s still not given him Merlin’s number.

“Well, Hilda, why don’t you just ask him nicely if you can have it back?” Alice is saying now. “I’m sure it was just an innocent prank.”

At the mention of the word ‘prank’, Arthur winces. It’s been two weeks since the incident with the parsnip, and he’s pretty sure that Gwaine has been plotting his revenge ever since. What with the knowing way that Gwaine’s calculating stare followed him round the nets at practice yesterday, and the stories circulating about Mercia College’s spin-bowler, Olaf, Arthur’s got a deep sense of foreboding about this morning’s cricket match, the last of the season.

There’s a sharp rap on the door.

“Come in,” he croaks, sitting up in bed, his duvet cascading down around his naked waist.

Alice’s head pokes round the door. Her eyes widen when she sees him, and he swears he blushes.

“Oh!  Mr Pendragon! You’re…” She coughs and her voice rises an octave. “Undressed. I’ll— oh my!” Her hand flies to her mouth, although it doesn’t hide her delighted grin. She retreats, slowly, with a reluctant air, her head the last part of her to leave the room.

“Go away, Hilda!” she says just outside his door. “I’m definitely not swopping staircases, and that’s that.”

Chuckling, Arthur rolls out of bed and pulls on a pair of underpants. By the time Alice is back, with a tray of delectable home-made cake slices, he’s dressed and ready to face the day.

“You spoil me, you know, Alice,” he says, picking a piece of delectable-looking coffee and walnut cake, and biting into it with a low hum of ecstasy. “Blimey! This is bloody fantastic.”

“Oh go on with you, Mr Pendragon,” she says, pinking slightly at the compliment and turning her back to wipe the sink down.

He’s pretty sure that bed-makers aren’t expected to bring cake to their staircases every day, either. He’s grateful every single day that he’s had the luck to be allocated a diamond like Alice and not that grumpy, hatchet-faced old harridan, Hilda, who cleans the rooms on poor old Gwaine’s staircase. Alice is brisk, no-nonsense, with smiles and dimples and immaculate blue-rinsed hair. Hilda, in contrast, has a perpetual air of resentment about her. Her faded, arcane tattoos, heavy pentacle pendant, and habit of muttering to herself while she cleans, have led Gwaine to joke that she’s actually a witch, and that she’s putting curses on all the students who cross her.

Gwaine crosses her a lot.

So, yes, Arthur’s enormously grateful for Alice, with her sweet smile and air of competence. And there’s no harm in buttering the old girl up with the occasional flirty moment. She takes it in good stride, Alice does, flicking him with her tea-towel, and scolding him good-naturedly when he makes an appreciative comment. “Get along with you, Mr Pendragon,” she’ll say with a laugh when he compliments her on her latest perm. “Don’t be so naughty. I’m a happily married woman, and old enough to be your grandmother, don’t you know!”

Today, in return for the moist morsel of coffee and walnut cake, he shares a pot of tea with Alice. They chat about the latest developments in her favourite soap opera. After a few minutes she gets on with the cleaning and he sets forth to the cricket match, still with a worried sense of apprehension churning in his gut, but at least now it’s been diluted by all that gooey, sweet deliciousness.

Arthur’s a little surprised when he arrives at the pavilion to find that the entire team, including Gwaine, are all already there, dressed in their cricket whites and looking decidedly shifty. There’s a distinct hush when he enters the room, and the air of expectation is almost palpable.

With a mounting sense of trepidation, he crosses the changing room to rummage in the kit bag for the one remaining set of freshly-laundered cricket whites, and feels almost relieved when he tugs them free.

“Is that really the best you can do, Gwaine?” he asks, adopting a stony-faced, stoic expression as the room erupts into hoots and guffaws. Rolling his eyes, he starts to pull on the trousers.

“I’m so, so sorry, Captain,” says Gwaine, with an ostentatious bow and a wide grin that belies his words. “I seem to have shrunk your cricket whites. Oops! Epic laundry error! Bad me!”

 _Epic laundry error, my arse,_ thinks Arthur.

They’re clearly just about big enough for him to tug on, made, perhaps, for an enormously fat, but short, child. The trousers are a good foot too short, but fit him a little too snugly round the waist, while the shirt only reaches as far as his navel. He can’t help admiring Gwaine’s audacity. But even as he tugs the shirt over his head, he’s already plotting his revenge.

“What’s up, Captain?” says Gwaine, chuckling. “Not scared, I hope?”

“No, Greene,” drawls Arthur. “Unlike some of you Neanderthals,” he glares pointedly at Cenred, “I am more concerned about my performance on the pitch than my appearance.”

Setting his jaw, hiding his relief that the prank’s not a worse one behind a grim frown, he mutters the immortal words “I’ll get you for this, Gwaine, you evil twat,” through gritted teeth, dons the ill-fitting cricket uniform, and strides out onto the pitch for the toss—a grim-faced thundercloud amid a sea of sunny faces.

Camelot College are first in to bat, and Arthur's still frowning when he pulls on his helmet and steps on to the crease, with Percival at the other end of the wicket. But at least he Arthur can allow himself a smile when their partnership racks up a very creditable seventy five runs, before Percy gets caught out behind from one of Olaf's devastatingly deceptive deliveries.

 

 

The worst thing, the very worst thing about this whole shebang, isn’t the way that Mercia College’s fast bowler, a moody gobshite named Val, doubles over with laughter whenever he squares up to bowl, wiping mock-tears out of his eyes.

Oh no. It’s the fact that his bloody team-mates, the shysters, have hidden his other clothes by the time he returns to the cricket pavilion, after their inevitable victory by a clear five wickets, so that he has to wear the uncomfortable, ridiculous trousers, now fragrant with sweat and covered in grass stains, in The Free Press while they’re enjoying an obligatory post-match pint.

But even that source of humiliation melts away under the influence of their third or fourth pint, and he can afford to bask in the glory of a well-earned victory. The season is over, the nights are drawing in, and the next few months will see a lot of gym and net time, so they might as well enjoy the aftermath of the game while they can.

“So, Princess,” Gwaine’s saying as he guzzles his Adnams Broadside. “Have you decided which one you’re going to marry, yet?”

“Nope.” Arthur wipes foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, and gazes appreciatively into the depths of his glass, where another three quarters of a pint of heavenly dark bronze nectar glows in the friendly, dim light of the pub. “Although there are definitely a couple out of the running.”

“Oh yeah?” Gwaine nudges Lancelot. “Hey, mate, have you got the sweepstakes sheet?”

Arthur rolls his eyes as Lancelot nods and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper from his wallet, because of course his mates have made his love life—or, rather, his inevitable and unwanted arranged marriage—the subject of a cheesy bet.

“Yep,” says Lancelot. “Myror is down for Elena, Gwaine, you’re rooting for Mithian, Cenred’s got Sophia, Percy’s down for Izzy. Leon’s hoping for Vivian. Winner gets a free night’s drinking with all the trimmings.”

“Don’t forget yourself, Lance. Who’re you rooting for?” says Gwaine

Lancelot taps the side of his nose. “It’s a secret.” He snatches away the sheet when Gwaine tries to grab it. “Oh no you don’t!”

“For fuck’s sake,” says Arthur. Bloody hell. Is nothing sacred? “How long have you had this on?”

“Since that bloody party,” says Lancelot, looking a bit shamefaced, as well he might.

“Well, Soph is a conniving bitch and I wouldn’t trust her with a bargepole,” says Gwaine. “Do tell me she’s one of the ones you’ve struck off.”

Arthur nods, and winces at the loud whoop that this elicits from Gwaine. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s  basically lucky that the bloke she molested at that party ran away before he could press charges. She had a lucky escape, there.”

To be honest, they’re all out of the running as far as Arthur is concerned. If he gets that First, he can do a Ph.D., by which time hopefully his father will have forgotten all about marrying him off, and he can finally run off with some gorgeous guy with killer cheekbones and a sunburst smile, to snog him senseless, without fear of discovery. But he hasn’t got round to confiding in any of his mates about this plan. He hasn’t even told them yet about the fact that he’s not even slightly attracted to girls. It’s not that he’s in the closet per se; more that it’s not really come up yet, in over a year.

All right, so maybe he’s become adept at steering the conversation.

Cenred’s swearing while he watches Leon scratch Sophia’s name from the list.

“You can scrub ‘Lena off, as well,” says Arthur. “I have it on good authority that she is batting for the other team.”

“What? Are you sure?” says Myror. “Bloody hell! Tell me You’re taking the piss? What a waste! She’s bloody gorgeous.” He pulls a face while Leon grins and puts a line through Elena’s name. “So that leaves Izzy, Viv and Mith.

“Wait,” says Lance. “Izzy’s going out with Triss. They look pretty serious.”

“Viv or Mith, then. You could do a lot worse, Arth,” says Leon. They’re at the stage of the evening where peoples’ names are truncated to monosyllables.

There are various nods around the table, but Arthur can’t help sighing heavily. “Yeah, I know,” he says, feeling decidedly unenthusiastic, and trying to ignore the speculative way that Lance’s eyes are trained on him. For a moment, he wonders who Lance has scribbled down on the piece of paper. He slurps the dregs from his pint and gets to his feet instead. “Another pint, anyone?”

The fact is, that by the time he, Lance and Gwaine, the last men standing, head on down to Market Square for a post-closing-time kebab, he’s forgotten all about the stupendous victory, his father’s wedding plans, Lance’s piercing stare, and, most of all, the sodding short-trousered cricket gear.

 

 

**Later That Night**

**Market Hill, Cambridge**

_I only wish some of the players' trousers fitted better._

_~The Duke of Edinburgh, on modern cricket (1987)_

 

“Here we go,” says Will. Things have been slack, tonight, but the pubs have just closed, which means it’s going to be busy soon.

Sure enough, the queue starts to build, and soon their hands are full, juggling orders, handing out food, and keeping a lid on any simmering arguments that blow up between indignant, bladdered Brits and clueless foreign tourists who Just Don’t Get Queuing.

Merlin’s been on edge all day, his phone in his pocket in case his mum needs him for anything, but Will persuaded him to come out tonight. The more of them serving, the shorter the queues, and the more money they get coming in. And they need money. His mum’s not been able to work for weeks, now, and her students are beginning to cancel. If things go on like this, the van will be their only source of income.

When a bunch of singing blokes in army fatigues rounds the corner from Sidney Street, Merlin groans inwardly. “Look out,” he says, nudging Gwen. “Squaddies.”

“Uh-oh,” says Will, under his breath, looking up from the till. “They look well pissed.”

There are four of them, and they’re making enough of a racket to scare most of their other customers away. Merlin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t take a degree to know from their swagger that they’ve waltzed into town intent on trouble

He’s got nothing against squaddies, per se. He’s sure that most of them are perfectly good blokes, risking their lives to serve their country and all. It’s just the ones who’ve been drinking, steadily, all afternoon and evening, and are looking forward to a big punch-up, that he can do without. Unfortunately, this lot seem to fall firmly into that category. As they get a bit closer, he groans.

Fuck. Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

“Well if it isn’t my favourite pair of fucking arse bandits!” drawls Borden. “You’ve come a long way since school, wankers.”

“Julius, there’s no need for that sort of rude, homophobic language,” says Gwen. “Have you come to get a kebab, or is it chips you’re after?”

“Aw, lovely Gwenny. What you doing hanging round with these pussies? What you need is a real man.” He starts undoing his belt. “Come ‘ere gorgeous, let me show you what a real man is like.”

Borden’s mates, in the manner of sycophants everywhere, snigger and guffaw while Will tugs off his plastic gloves and makes as if to leave the van. “I’m going to fucking deck him one,” he’s saying. “And then I’m going to boot him up the fucking jacksie.”

“Don’t bother,” says Merlin, catching his arm. “They’re not worth it. And anyway, Gwen can handle it.”

Will glares at him, but goes back to frying chips. Because Gwen is indeed, handling it, like the bad-ass kebab-seller blacksmith’s daughter that she is.

“Get lost, Borden,” Gwen’s saying, scowling. “Don’t be such a creep. God, I always knew were the kind of wanker who’d deliberately misinterpret good manners as a come-on.” She raises the spatula she’s been using to flip burgers and wields it, threateningly. “You come near me with your… your…” she grimaces poetically, “diseased man-equipment, and I’ll make sure you can’t stand up for a week.” She returns to her usual sweet-faced smile. “Now, are you having some food, or what.”

They mutter and grumble but they order some chips.

“That’ll be ten pound forty,” she says, while a glaring Will shovels slightly-too-small portions of golden, crispy, fragrant slices of fried potato into the greaseproof paper and hands them over the counter.

Julius laughs. “Now, now,” he says. “You won’t be charging old mates like us, now, Gwenny.” He shoves his packet of chips into his mate’s hand, and cracks his knuckles threateningly as he steps towards the van. He looks Merlin straight in the eye as he places his foot on the side of the van and starts to rock it, so that their supplies tumble over, and chip fat slops out of the fryer onto Will’s wrist, making him cry out in pain.

“What? Borden, you ignorant, pathetic, fucker, leave it out,” says Merlin. He feels his temper climbing. “Don’t fuck with us. Piss right off, you shit-headed prick. There are bloody chips in that packet with more intelligence than you. God, you were an ignorant fucking ape at school and you’re no different now.”  He knows he shouldn’t rile wankers like Borden, but he’s had a shit day, he’s been reigning in his feelings for too long, and he’s just about had enough.

“What did you call me?”

“Er… Merlin?” Gwen’s clearing her throat, her voice high and panicky. The van judders; Merlin guesses some of Borden’s cronies have started to kick and push it, and Will’s yelling blue murder at them to stop, because they’re slopping hot chip fat all over the place. There’s a heavy crash when a large bottle of oil falls to the floor, spewing its contents across their feet. It’s like being in a hot, slippery earthquake, and there’s no way that any of them can stay vertical. Shrieking, Gwen falls to the floor, and Merlin tumbles on top of her amid a cascade of ketchup bottles and uncooked burgers.

“What’s going on?” says a calm, posh-sounding voice, and the chaos comes to an abrupt halt. Merlin frowns. Is that who he thinks it is?

He lurches to his feet, stumbling out of the van and onto the cobbled street below, where the squaddies are squaring off against a couple of blokes he vaguely recognises, and a third, dressed all in ill-fitting cricketing gear like an eccentrically dressed, vengeful superhero.

Arthur.

He’s has to fight to top the soppy smile that threatens to appear on his face.

Vaguely he hears Gwen and Will stepping out of the van door behind him, slamming it shut.

“Lance!” she gasps.

One of the guys with Arthur turns, and steps towards her, all protective-like. “Gwen!” he says, eyes widening. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, the tremble in her voice giving the lie to her words. “But these gits have trashed our van.”

“And what gives you the right to do that?” says Arthur, turning to Borden with a frown, shoulders wide and stance steady.

There’s an air of authority in his voice that makes Merlin’s knees feel weak. Finding himself standing, gawping, he slams his mouth shut.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” Arthur goes on, voice still commanding without being loud. “Bringing disrepute on your regiment like this. Who’s your commanding officer? Shall we see what your sergeant major thinks of this ignominious episode? Hmm?”

Merlin’s heart’s in his mouth, because Arthur’s standing there, fine blond hair glowing like a halo in the streetlights, like a secret cricketing agent, and he looks totally glorious, and heroic. And he just took the wind out of Borden’s sails and made him look completely wretched, shuffling his feet like a guilty schoolboy.

In that moment Merlin finally realises he’s in love. He’s a goner. That’s it.

“We was just joking,” Borden says, eventually, with a mutinous set to his mouth. “Having a laugh, like.”

Well that just takes the fucking biscuit. “Joking?” says Merlin, indignant. “You’ve ruined all our supplies, harassed Gwen, fucked up the van—”

“Burnt my fucking hand!” Will interjects.

“Burnt Will’s hand! All because you were joking? Some bloody comedian you are, Borden, you pillock!”

“Merlin!” The tone of Gwen’s voice is suddenly urgent. They all turn to see what has happened, and she points. “The police.” They all turn to follow her finger. While everyone’s attention is distracted, there’s a muffled “whoosh” and an abruptly exhaled “oof,” followed in short measure by a loud yelp.

They all look round to see Gwen standing, clutching the van’s wet chemical fire extinguisher, mandatory under U.K. health and safety regulations, which is still pointed, in the manner of a smoking gun, at the soaked, aghast figure of Julius Borden, class bully.

“Oops?” says Gwen, in her most innocent-sounding voice, looking up with eyebrows raised.

Arthur and his mates are standing with Will and Merlin now; Lance is standing gazing at Gwen with a rapt expression in his eyes that makes him look slightly constipated.

“You’d better get him hosed off, fellas,” Gwen adds, in a mild, pleasant voice as she replaces the fire extinguisher in its wall-mount, and wipes her hands on the tea-towel at her waist. “It’s a skin irritant, you know.”

The three remaining squaddies take one look at their soggy, dishevelled-looking leader, and one look at the rapidly expanding circle of onlookers, and, tugging Borden by the arm, they take off, sharpish, in the direction of Kings Parade.

“Go on,” Will shouts after them in a gleeful voice. “Fuck off, you miserable load of dog turds.”

A bloke with longish dark hair and a scruffy beard leans forward. “No worries, mate,” he says, in a soothing voice. “The bastards have gone. Just chill. That was bloody epic,” he says to Gwen, who’s basking in Lance’s moon-eyed gaze. “My name’s Gwaine. I’d pay good money to see you do that again.”

Gwen flashes him a winsome smile. “Customer relations are my forte,” she says. “Will is brilliant at frying.”

“What about Merlin?” says Arthur.

Gwen shrugs. “He’s pretty hopeless,” she says.

“Oi!” protests Merlin

“Well you are! But I was going to add that he’s the most brilliant guitarist in East Anglia, and when he makes it big I’m totally going to be his manager.”

Gwaine offers Will his hand. “Commiserations on the mess, mate,” he says. “Shall we get your van straightened out?”

Grinning at the offer, Will shakes Gwaine’s hand. “Thanks, mate,” he says. “I’m Will.” He turns his eyes to Arthur. “Thanks,” he says. “I suppose you’re not all that bad, for a bunch of grads,” he concedes. “Even if you look like a twat in that get-up. No offense, mate.”

Merlin steps forward before Will can do any more damage, and holds out his hand. “Thanks, Arthur,” he says softly. “For… for, well. You were pretty impressive.”

“It’s all right,” said Arthur, taking his hand and shaking it. For a moment after they stop shaking hands, they just stand there, smiling at each other, while Merlin’s heart stubbornly refuses to stop pounding, and the palm of his hand tingles with the welcome contact. “It finally gives me the chance to do something I’ve hoped to do for ages.”

“What’s that,” says Merlin, swallowing a lump that has suddenly appeared in his throat, he doesn’t know where from.

“Get your number,” says Arthur, firmly. “Not to mention your surname.”

Smiling slyly, Merlin finally extracts his hand. “I’ve always wanted to be rescued by a superhero,” he says, quietly, so no one but Arthur can hear. He looks Arthur up and down, appraisingly. “Ten out of ten for originality. But I have to confess I was expecting a cape and, you know, lycra. Oh, and underpants on the outside.”

Arthur looks away with a sheepish grin, and shrugs. “Yeah, well,” he says, turning back, a lop-sided smirk on his finely hewn features. “They were all out of man-tights and capes in the super-hero shop.”

Grinning, Merlin nudges Arthur with a gentle elbow to the ribs. “Ah, so that’s why you didn’t have any clothes on at all, last time you tried to buy a kebab.”

Arthur snorts. “Nah,” he says. “I was mid-change, and didn’t have access to a phone-box.”

“Must be tricky, when you’ve had a few beers, and you’re called upon to, you know, rescue a damsel in distress,” say Merlin, nodding. “If you’re having that much trouble, you can rescue me naked next time, I won’t object.”

Arthur leans forward and whispers, hot, sweet breath, redolent with hops and barley, tickling Merlin’s ear, making him shiver deliciously. “Just give me your damn number,” he says. “And I’ll give you mine. We can leave out the whole distress bit, and jump straight to the nakedness. What do you say?”

Merlin feels suddenly hot in the cool evening air; his cheeks are like furnaces. “I say, yeah,” he croaks, licking suddenly dry lips, and swallowing the husky note in his voice. “Yeah, any time.”

Merlin actually jumps when Will’s disgruntled voice intrudes into this delicious discussion. “Oi! Lovebirds!” he says. “Get a bloody room, for fuck’s sake. But first, get your arses in gear and help me to clean up the bleeding van?”

“Yeah,” says Gwaine, flicking hair out of his eyes. “And then let’s find ourselves some more liquor. I’m bloody parched.”

“Bugger!” says Will in an urgent voice.

“What?” Merlin, Arthur, Lance, Gwaine and Gwen all say at once.

“That bastard, Borden, never paid for his fucking chips.”

 

 

**Later That Night**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_My only love sprung from my only hate!_

_Too early seen unknown, and known too late!_

_Prodigious birth of love it is to me,_

_That I must love a loathèd enemy._

_~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

 

“You’d better sort this lot out, mate,” says Gwaine, with an ostentatious belch, gesturing at the parade of empty whisky bottles that litter Arthur’s room three hours later, together with the unconscious Will, who lies among them, passed out on the floor. He occasionally lets out a snore loud enough to make Arthur’s leaded windows shake. “Or your bedder’ll have your guts for garters. She’ll be here in three hours.”

Lance took Gwen home hours ago, and Arthur’s eyelids are beginning to droop. “S’ alright, Gwaine,” Arthur slurs. He peers into the empty bottle he’s clutching in his hand, and tosses it onto the floor. “Sh’ loves me.”

“Bloody hell, Art,” says Gwaine, hiccuping. “She’s old enough to be your grandmother!”

“I don’t mind,” Arthur adds. “She makes bloody gorgeous cakes. ‘Druther marry her than any of tho… hic… those girls my father has lined up.”

He’s feeling morose, now. He and Merlin are sitting on Arthur’s bed. Well, Arthur’s sitting; Merlin’s fallen asleep on his arm, he can’t feel his fingers, but he doesn’t want to move them. He feels warmer and more contented than he would have thought it was possible to feel, with a heavy, prone guitarist’s prominent shoulders digging into him.

“But my wishes aren’t imp...impotent. Import...hic...ant. S’ the Pendragon name, y’see, Gwaine.” His throat feeling suddenly tight, he sighs, flexing his hand gently so that it forms a protective cup around Merlin’s bicep. “S’ the Pendragon sp...hic...sperm. Gotta have Pendragon ba...hic...babies.”

But when Merlin snuffles and turns his head so that it’s tucked into the nape of Arthur’s neck, Arthur can’t help feeling a smile creep across his face.

Gwaine staggers to his feet, and gives them both a knowing look. “Good luck with that, mate,” he says, softly, his voice more sober than it has any right to after the night they’ve just had. “But if you ask me, I reckon you should tell your Dad the truth. He might not react well, but at least you’ll have what you want.”

“Is it that obvious?” Arthur’s voice comes out as an undignified sort of croak.

“Nah,” says Gwaine, shaking his head.

Arthur exhales, relieved.

Gwaine chuckles. “I lied,” he said. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you dressed up in cricketing gear and rescued him from a kicking. Wait! You just did!”

Scowling, Arthur throws his pillow at him. “Bastard.”

“Yep,” says Gwaine, hauling the semi-conscious Will to his feet and tugging him towards the door. “But you love me anyway.”

 Will’s bleary eyes flicker open. “Wossgoinon?”

“Going to pour you into a cab, mate,” says Gwaine, his grin revealing white teeth. “Let these two lovebirds have a bit of privacy.”

And with that, they’re gone.

Gwaine’s a bloody good mate, sometimes, even if his pranks are bloody outrageous.

Arthur shifts his weight until he’s a whole lot more comfortable, and, looking down, ignores the  way that Merlin’s inky hair curls into his nape, the way that his stubble scratches at the tender skin on the inside of Arthur’s elbow.

“Come on,” he says, instead. “Come on, you great lump. Let’s get you comfy.”

He shifts the still-slumbering Merlin into a gangly-limbed heap on his bed, and ruffles his hair before tugging the duvet over him, and curling up at his feet with the second pillow. There’ll be time, when Merlin wakes in the morning, to talk to him, snatch that kiss he’s been craving, maybe find out if his lips still taste as good, whether they still light a fire in Arthur’s loins like they did all those months ago in Grantchester.

Yawning, he buries his head in his duvet and wraps his hand round Merlin’s skinny legs, as if to stop him from running away without waking Arthur up. Those jeans have rucked up, revealing, above his sock line, a thin line of pale skin, lightly dusted with fine, dark hair. Pushing Merlin’s jeans up further, Arthur places his hand there, sighing with the warmth of it, wishing he could do more, but it wouldn’t be right, not with Merlin snuffling into his pillow like a baby. He contents himself with pressing his lips to that gap, relishing the way that they tingle, the way that Merlin responds, even in his sleep, with a gentle exhale and minute adjustment of his posture.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Arthur whispers, safe in the knowledge that the oblivious Merlin can’t hear a thing, can’t feel the tender way that Arthur’s fingers are smoothing the hairs on his leg. “Sleep well, Merlin.”

Arthur’s had a long day, what with the stupid clothes and the cricket and breaking up a fight and all. He tugs off his ludicrous cricket trousers, but doesn’t have the energy to put on a pyjama top. Vaguely registering the faded picture on Merlin’s sock, of Homer Simpson clutching a sprig of mistletoe, he finds himself crawling back into the bed, top-to-toe with Merlin, tucking under the covers, hitching his knee onto Merlin’s warm waist. It’s too warm and the bed is too narrow, but before he knows it his eyes are drifting closed.

So, what with one thing and another, he’s to be entirely forgiven for forgetting to put his bin out—which is the universally accepted signal to the bed-maker, to alert her to the fact that he doesn’t want her to clean his room, today, thanks.

The first time that Arthur realises this omission, it’s too late. He’s roused by a shrill screech, and a heavy thud, followed by a string of ripe fenland curses.

“Mr Pendragon! I’m so sorry sir,” she says, as he struggles through a tangle of heavy, bony limbs to pull himself into a sitting position, eliciting a muffled yelp at the other end of the bed as his foot makes contact with Merlin’s jaw. “I thought you were gone for the day as usual, so I let myself in, and I had no idea you had company and now I’ve dropped my tea tray, and—oh my good Lord!”

This garbled monologue stops abruptly when a tousled mop of dishevelled black hair emerges from the other end of the bed.

“Ah. Alice. I’m terribly sorry, I should expl—” Arthur starts to say, eyes on Merlin’s shocked expression. But he never gets to finish the sentence, because both Alice and Merlin are speaking at once.

“Merlin!” she’s shouting. “Merlin Emrys! Whatever will your mother say? Of all the… And Mr. Pendragon! What on earth are you thinking?”

“Auntie Alice?” Merlin’s mouth makes a round O shape. “What are you? Oh my God.” Merlin flops back down onto the bed, tugging the duvet over his head and burrowing under the covers. “Tell me this istnffnfnnf,” says a muffled voice under the covers. “Mum’s gonna fndfnfn.”

Alice, with an expression on her face that Arthur’s never seen before, pulls the covers off Merlin and hauls him out of bed by the tip of one ear.

“Ow! Auntie Alice! Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

Abruptly she releases his ear, which he rubs, frowning like a petulant schoolboy, which is a look that Arthur can’t help squirreling away for later enjoyment.

“Your poor mother has been up all night looking for you, Merlin Emrys you lazy good-for-nothing,” she’s saying, her face all red.

Abruptly she turns on Arthur, and it’s his turn to colour, a bloom of mortification heating his cheeks. “And as for you, Mr Pendragon, you should know better than despoiling the reputation of an innocent town boy like this.”

“I haven’t despoiled anyth—”

“Just you wait till your Uncle Gaius hears about this, Merlin Emrys.” she carries on, pushing Merlin’s battered old Doc Martens into his unresisting hands, and shoving him out of the door, a force of nature, immune to either of their protests.

“But, Auntie Alice! I still haven’t given Arthur my ph—”

“No buts!” The door slams firmly shut and Arthur can hear the argument continuing into the corridor and down the staircase, getting fainter all the while. “Of all the things. You should be heartily ashamed of yourself, worrying your poor old mum like that. It’s a good thing she didn’t have one of her turns.”

They’re outside, now, in the courtyard under his window, but he can still hear their conversation. “But I was attacked! And, and Arthur helped me— ow!”

Arthur winces at the sound of skin meeting skin in a hearty slap. Struck by a sudden idea, he grabs a piece of paper from his desk, scribbles hastily on it, and rushes to open his window, tugging at the elderly fastenings until eventually they give with a groan.

“Merlin,” he shouts, leaning out almost to his waist. “HEY!”

Alice releases Merlin’s shoulder for a second, and he turns, shrugging helplessly.

Grinning, Arthur releases the paper from his window, and it flutters gently down. With an answering smile of such unexpected joy that it makes Arthur want to frame it, Merlin breaks free of Alice’s grasp and stoops to retrieve it.

There. He knows Merlin’s surname, and Merlin has his number. What’s more, Merlin knows where Arthur’s rooms are.

It’s the best he can do for the moment.

 

**Last Day of Michaelmas Term**

**Local Pharmacy, Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_I do remember an apothecary,_

_And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted,_

_In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows_

_~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

 

His uncle looks up from his copy of the Guardian crossword with a jump, and then frowns when he sees who’s just come into the pharmacy, sitting slowly down again.

“Uncle Gaius?”

“Sit down, lad. You make my old bones feel tired, with all your fidgeting.” Gaius returns to his paper, muttering “ _Ten Across, Ten Across_ ,” under his breath.

Merlin settles down on the chair next to his uncle’s and searches his brain for the right words.

Sighing, Gaius stops muttering and lowers his paper, regarding Merlin with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “Well?” he says. “Spit it out, lad. Don’t just sit there, jiggling.” He gives Merlin’s restless crossed leg a pointed look until he stills it. “A customer, or patient, could come in at any minute.”

“It’s just – well. Is mum going to get worse?” he says, at last.

Gaius regards him with a compassionate frown. “Merlin.” He rests a bony hand on Merlin’s arm. “The specialist said… well, she might not get worse for a long time, with the right treatment. People are doing a lot with dietary changes, plenty of vitamin D of course. Is she taking her supplements?”

“Yes – and she’s eating lots of fish and nuts but… but she could do with a holiday. From what I can tell, sunlight and exercise… and it’s hard to get her to leave the house, sometimes.” Merlin’s throat is tight and it’s difficult to avoid squirming on his chair, but Merlin does manage to still his jiggling knee.

“It’s understandable for you to be anxious, Merlin. But you must trust your mother - it is her illness to manage, after all.”

“She was doing so well, Gaius!”

“I know, lad. I know.” Uncle Gaius squeezes his arm. “It’s hard on you, my boy.”

They sit in companionable silence, for a while, looking at the crossword, and then Gaius fixed him with a quizzical eyebrow. “Is that it, then?” he says. “You’ve come all the way to see your old uncle, just to tell me your mum’s eating well and needs a holiday?”

“Well—there was one other thing.”

“I thought as much. Go on then, spit it out.”

“It’s just… I… well, you know Auntie Alice?”

“I am aware of my partner’s existence, yes.”

“Well… it’s just… you know, she confiscated something from me, the other day, and I’d really like it back…”

“This isn’t about that boy at Camelot College, is it Merlin?”

“No!  Well. I mean. Well, not just that.” Merlin bites his lip. This is turning out to be even more difficult than he’d feared. “He’s… I mean, I’d like… I’ve never… I can’t stop thinking about him! And I don’t even have his number, because Auntie Alice—”

“Merlin, you’re so young, you’re only just eighteen. Your mother is understandably worried about  your choices, and with her recent diagnosis it wouldn’t be fair to put her under any more stress.”

“I know that Gaius. I don’t want to upset her, that’s the last thing I want. But I am eighteen, Gaius! Eighteen! I’m an adult now, and I’m entitled to make my own choices about who I see and who I care for. And he’s an honourable person, I know he is. He’s had opportunit— I mean, he hasn’t taken advan—  what I’m trying to say, Gaius, is that I know Auntie Alice is trying to protect me from myself, but aren’t I old enough now to make my own mistakes?”

Gaius sighs, patting his hand. “I know, Merlin. I really don’t think that she has any business interfering, but it’s too late, I’m afraid. I fear she has destroyed the slip of paper to which you allude.”

“Really?” Merlin’s eyes prickle with resentment. “She had no right to do that!”

Tapping the newspaper with his pencil, Gaius shrugs. “Is there no other way that you can contact your beau? Do you not know where he resides?”

“I know where his room is,” says Merlin, standing up and pacing across the shop. “But the college is locked up safer than Fort bloody Knox. I can’t even get into the courtyard without a keycard.”

“Aha!” says Gaius, a sly grin creeping across his features. “And does your Aunt, illustrious bed-maker to the rich and famous, not have such an item in her possession?”

Eyes widening, mouth twitching with the sudden incredulous joy that threatens to overwhelm him, Merlin turns to his uncle who has resumed his contemplation of _Ten Across_ with an air of innocence that doesn’t fool him one bit. “You wouldn’t!”

“I might,” says Uncle Gaius. “But not if you breathe a word of it to Alice, do you hear? I’ve grown fond of my adult appendages, and would rather like to keep them intact, thank you.”

“You’re the best Gaius! Just the best Uncle in the world okay? Oh, and mum’s the word!” says Merlin, “Just shout when you’re… when you can… you know. Secure the merchandise, as it were.” Feeling a spring return to his step that he didn’t know had left, he turns to leave the shop.

“Wait!”

Curious, Merlin turns in the doorway, bell jangling above his head. “What is it?”

Uncle Gaius hobbles over, thrusting an anonymous-looking package into his hands. “Your mother will kill me, not to mention Alice, but I would rather you were safe. Take care of your health, Merlin.”

Feeling his cheeks blooming with heat when he guesses what’s in the bag, Merlin nods helplessly. “Thanks, Uncle Gaius,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“See to it that you do, Merlin,” says Gaius with a smile and a rustle of his paper.

 

**Late That Night**

**Camelot College Cambridge**

_What love can do, that dares love attempt_

_~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

 

It’s late.

Pulled along by elastic threads of longing, he slips through the wrought iron gates. They fall together, behind him, with a distant clang that seems loud in the cool, damp night. Footfalls tapping on the pale stone flags, he trudges across the courtyard, eyes drifting along the first-floor windows, trying to remember the location of the correct one.

The fates are on his side, tonight. There, one is lit, and through it, he sees pale golden hair silhouetted by the pale desk-lamp, window slightly ajar, so that the breeze drifts through it, lifting fine golden strands. Merlin smiles in delight. Trust Arthur to be studying round the clock.

Merlin’s fingers itch with the desire to smooth those wayward tendrils, to replace that earnest, studious frown with startling, delighted smiles. One of the things he’s learned about himself, in the all-too-small list of occasions that he’s had the luck to encounter Arthur Pendragon, is that he loves to make Arthur laugh, loves the way that Arthur’s body doubles up in sheer delight, that his face transforms into something so merry and childlike that it is like a sunrise, only better.

He can’t remember which staircase he needs, but Arthur’s window is open. Quietly, cautiously, so as not to wake any of the rest of the slumbering courtyard residents, he approaches it.

“Arthur!” he hisses.

Arthur looks up, frowning. Leaning across his desk, he pushes the window open a little further. “Hello?”

Merlin doesn’t answer; there’s a porter patrolling the court. As he slowly perambulates around the perimeter, Merlin crouches behind a bush, keeping as still and quiet as he can. He’s sure the porter can hear his heart pounding, so loud is its rhythm in his ears.

“That’s odd,” he can hear Arthur say. “Gwaine? Is that you? Stop fucking about, Gwaine and go to bed, you lazy tosser. We’ve got training tomorrow.”

When there’s still no answer, Merlin hears Arthur’s sigh and, heart in his mouth, steps back out into the court, watching the porter’s retreating back warily. He’s just about to speak when Arthur’s voice starts again.

“There’s no-one there.” Arthur mutters in an undertone, biting off his words in the way that people do when they think they’re alone. “God, I’m a fine one to talk, staying up all night mooning over... If only… ach...! I don’t think father would mind so much about him being a man. If only he wasn’t from the town. He’s fine with Morgana.”

Through the window, Merlin sees Arthur stand and stretch, turning, back arching. Arthur’s jeans are a snug fit, and his buttocks are gentle half-moons, tightly clenched as he stretches.

What Merlin would give to be those jeans. He’s never wished to be an article of clothing before, but the thought of stretching himself across that impossible chasm between those two sweet, round cheeks… Merlin swallows, throat tight.

But wait, Arthur’s turning back to the window and speaking again. “Never would have thought I’d have had my wicket taken by someone bowling from the town end.” There’s a sharp exhalation. “But Merlin’s knocked my bails right off my stumps. And the strange thing is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Merlin can’t help gasping when he realises that Arthur’s not talking about actual cricket. So Arthur really is hot for him; he hasn’t been imagining things.

“There _is_ someone out there.” Arthur turns and pushes the window open wider. “Who’s there?”

“Ermmm… a friend?” says Merlin, trying not to panic.

“What’s your name… friend?” says Arthur. “Are you supposed to be here? What are you doing? Spying on people?”

Merlin casts about for a suitable reply, while surreptitiously trying to release his ukulele from his bag. “Let’s suppose for one minute that I am, okay? Supposed to be here, I mean… In which case my name’s not important, right?”  Softly, he strums the strings one at a time to tune them. “Call me – I dunno, Galahad or something.”

“I recognise your voice… Friend! you don’t sound like a Galahad to me.” Arthur opens the window a little wider, and leans out, smiling so that Merlin can see his teeth reflecting the moon’s light. “More like an idiot who’s going to get caught and thrown out by the porters if he doesn’t come up here soon. What’s that I hear? A guitar? Are you wooing me?”

“Would you like me to?” says Merlin, heart racing.

“Well, I don’t really know. No one’s ever wooed me before!”

“Oh! So you’re a woo-virgin, then?” Merlin starts strumming the ukulele, softly.

“If you want to put it like that!” Arthur snorts.

“Are you worried about your woo-cherry being popped?”

“Virginity is highly over-rated.”

“Let me break your woo-duck then.” Merlin thinks the mad grin that he can feel spreading across his face might well be permanent. “See, I can talk in cricketing metaphors too.”

The laugh that shakes Arthur’s shoulders fills Merlin with warmth.  “‘Woo- duck’? How on earth do you come up with these things?” His voice has an admiring tone in it that makes Merlin want to show off, to compose lengthy comic poems for Arthur, and put them to ridiculously cheesy, upbeat music, all major chords and perfect cadences.

“It’s the first thing they teach you at chav school.” Merlin flinches and mentally castigates himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up his social class.

But the still-chuckling Arthur doesn’t seem to have noticed. “How on earth did you get into Hall Court, anyway?”

Merlin shrugs and laughs, feeling giddy and reckless. “I flew!” he says. “Using my dick as a bloody rudder, because, you know, I fancy you rotten.”

“Merlin!” Arthur’s shocked, mirthful shout rings out loud across the courtyard, making Merlin’s face glow. “God! The porters will murder you if they find you trespassing at this time of night.”

“Actually, it’s more like an antenna.”

“What?”

“My dick. Pointing the wrong way for a rudder.”

“Merlin!” They’re both laughing now, and Merlin’s got his ukulele tuned.

“I wrote you another song,” says Merlin. “Don’t you want to hear it?”

“Go on then.” Arthur’s face is wreathed in grins; Merlin’s feeling ridiculously proud of being the person that has put them there.

 

 

 He clears his throat and strums a few notes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _“Ooooh… Arthur’s so gorgeous_
> 
> _There’ll never be another_
> 
> _With the sun at one end_
> 
> _And the moon at the oth…”_

“STOP!” Arthur’s doubled over in laughter, now.

Another window opens, and someone leans out. “Arthur!”

“Gwaine?”

“Bloody well hurry up and drag him up to your room and shag him, Princess,” yells Gwaine, for it is indeed him. “Some of us have got to get up in the morning.” With that, all around the courtyard, windows are opening and curious heads are peering out of windows.

Merlin steps forward with a hopeful feeling in his heart. “Maybe I could finish this wooing in your room?” he says.

Arthur’s still smiling and soft-eyed. “Idiot,” he says. “Wait there; I’ll come down and let you in before you scandalise the neighbours any further.”

It seems ridiculous to have got here, full of cheek and bluster, and to suddenly come over all shy and awkward as soon as he steps through the door of Arthur’s room, but as he looks around at the tidy shelves of mathematical texts, battered copies of Wisden’s cricketing almanac, and hardback books, Merlin is forcefully reminded that he and Arthur live in very different worlds. Swallowing, suddenly unsteady at the knees, he’s got half a mind to turn round and walk straight back out again. But Arthur’s hand on his elbow is steady and warm, his eyes are merry and filled with confidence, and his smile fills Merlin with a wordless longing that’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

It can’t hurt to stay, just for a little while.

“So,” Arthur’s saying. “This… antenna you were talking about.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” says Merlin, abruptly, his nerves getting the better of him. The words, forced out of his mouth before his brain has time to process them, prick the bubble of casual, flirtatious banter. It’s replaced by something altogether more urgent and desperate when Arthur closes the distance between them and covers Merlin’s mouth with his own.

The kiss is like everything he’s remembered, everything he’s imagined, and more. Arthur’s lips are soft and pliant, his tongue is bold and searching, his hands hot and firm as they slip down Merlin’s hips and haul on his thighs, pulling him in. Merlin’s pants and groans are stifled by the all-encompassing heat of Arthur’s mouth.

Finding himself backed up against a desk, Merlin shifts his hips so that he’s perched on the edge, legs straddling Arthur’s hips, insistent groins pressed together, rubbing maddening circles against one another. Hastily he tugs Arthur’s T-shirt up, seeking skin, and hisses when he finds it, skittering his fingers across the tight muscles of Arthur’s back as if it was the fret of his guitar.

“So hot,” he murmurs, freeing his mouth from the kiss and tracing the length of Arthur’s stubbly neck with it, enjoying the rough sensation against his lips. His heart is hammering, a wild stutter of wonder and delight, although why he should be surprised by the sheer warmth that Arthur radiates, he really doesn’t know.

But then all thoughts are chased from his brain, replaced with simple desperation, and he groans, long and loud, because Arthur is pressing the heel of his hand to Merlin’s crotch, sliding along his rampant cock with just the right amount of pressure to make Merlin’s pulse accelerate. It’s still hidden behind too many layers, and with all his heart Merlin wants them gone, wants to feel the warm, decisive glide of Arthur’s hand on him. Falling back onto the desk with a crash, he adjusts the angle of his head so that it is not sitting on top of anything too uncomfortable, and pulls Arthur down on top of him where he lies, panting, gusts of breath painting hot-and-cold spots on the sweat-slick skin of Merlin’s neck.

“Fuck, Merlin,” says Arthur, shifting his weight until their crotches are aligned. Gently he cants his hips in a slow rhythm that makes Merlin cry out in longing. “Fuck,” he says again, letting out a soft moan when Merlin’s hands finally find the plump swell of his glorious arse, and massage those muscles, revelling in the feel of them as they tense and relax. “Merlin!”

Merlin’s never felt this turned on. “Arthur I…” Lightheaded and giddy with lust, he can feel his climax building within him. “God, Arthur, I’m sorry, I’m going to…”

There’s a muffled reply from the vicinity of his neck, where Arthur’s buried his face, and is helplessly gasping, tiny regular bursts of longing that fill Merlin with a sense of power and euphoria.

Gently, Arthur suckles on his throat. A sudden, sharp suck on his collarbone makes darts of pleasure bloom on his skin, and Arthur’s head pulls back, to let him examine his handywork. His face is wild and flushed, fine blond hair jutting up in whorls where Merlin has clutched at it.

“Fuck, Merlin! God! You’re so… Fuck! Look at you. I’ve never… fuck!” As Arthur resumes the insistent ebb and flow of his hips, faster now, more erratic, against Merlin’s groin, letting out tiny grunts of exertion, the pleasure gathers deep inside Merlin’s body, and flares, shooting through him in great spurts. Merlin clutches on to the papers that litter the desk, and, letting his head fall back with a thud, he lets out a bitten-off, high-pitched cry, shuddering and gasping with the force of his orgasm, ecstatic sparks erupting in his field of vision.

When Arthur falters and sinks to the floor, Merlin follows him, a marionette released by his puppeteer, and they slide into a jumbled, laughing heap of floppy limbs and messy laundry.

“I’m really sorry,” says Arthur, somewhere from deep inside the sweat-soaked, panting heap. “I… I… well.” He coughs, making Merlin’s loose limbs jiggle, so that he chuckles. “I… er, well.  Let’s just say that I… I intended to bat for the full innings, but found myself clean bowled before I’d even managed to hit a single ball.” He sighs, and Merlin can feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Terribly sorry.”

“That’s all right, Arthur,” says Merlin, feeling a ridiculous grin creeping across his face. “I’ve never bowled a maiden over before.” Looking down at the scrunched-up papers that litter the floor, covered as they are with neatly pencilled equations, he feels a sudden pang of guilt. “Anyway, I am the one who should apologise. I’ve ruined your work!”

“Don’t worry, Merlin.” The words are hardly articulated, they come out as more of a “Doworrymerln”, but Merlin know’s what he’s saying. “S’ not ev’ry day I get my woo-cherry popped.” Arthur’s weak punch to Merlin’s upper arm just makes them both snort with laughter again.

Eventually they crawl across the floor to the welcoming embrace of Arthur’s bed, and lie there for a while, gradually shucking off their soiled clothes, tossing them into wild, disordered heaps on the floor, and burying themselves under the covers. At first they’re languid and unhurried, but after a while, as Merlin strokes circles around the dark-blond hairs that swirl around Arthur’s nipples, which makes his fingertips and nerve endings tingle, he feels himself starting to harden again. He deliberately lets his teasing fingers roam further south to the waistband of Arthur’s boxer shorts, and looks up, questioningly, at Arthur through his eyelashes. 

“So,” Merlin says with a quirk of his lips. “Ready for your second innings yet?”

“Bloody hell, yes, I am,” says Arthur, voice gravelly and deep.

Without a second thought, Merlin’s following the trace of his fingers with his nose, and breathing in Arthur’s heady, yeasty scent, smeared as it is across his fragrant, damp boxer shorts. Within seconds, Merlin’s erection returns in full force. With impatient hands, he pushes down Arthur’s pants. At last, Arthur’s cock springs up, dark pink, bold and thick, and Merlin feels his mouth begin to water in anticipation.

“Arthur,” he says unable to articulate any other words, hoping that his hoarse voice and trembling hands convey what he wants to do. “Arthur, please.”

“Oh my God, Merlin, God, yes,” says Arthur. He’s propped up on his elbows, gazing down, rapt. While Merlin smiles at him, he smirks and lets his thighs draw apart to accommodate Merlin better between them.

“I’ve never… I mean I’m not…”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Arthur, his voice a harsh croak, and his cock gives a little bounce. “I like… it’s my… I mean, I haven’t either.”

“Expect me to believe that, a gorgeous little cock-tease like you?” says Merlin, kneeling between Arthur’s taut, athletic thighs, all confidence and mischief returning to him in a relieved rush. “I’ve heard what you get up to in those posh boys’ schools you know. Did they do this to you?” Bending, he lets his tongue flick out to capture the dew-like bead that has emerged from the tip of Arthur’s cock, then slides it back into his mouth. Watching Arthur, all the while, he licks his lips. “Mmmm.”

He’s enormously gratified at the whimper this pulls from Arthur.

“M…m…minx,” Arthur whispers. “Fuck, no. None of them did that. Or… fuck! Holy shit! Or that!”

The curses and sighs that Arthur produces when Merlin wraps his mouth around his straining cock-head are better than any music Merlin has heard.

“Oh please, oh God, Merlin, you tease! God! Get on with it will you! God, that’s so… I’m… Merlin!”

Later, when they lie there, entwined, the tempo of their hearts gradually settling into a steady, synchronised thump, their world compresses for a while to the size of a tiny cocoon, where nothing else matters and nothing ever will. Merlin can’t help thinking that it’s the calm before the storm. But he hides that thought away for now, and the two men drift into a peaceful, waking slumber, blissfully unaware of the clouds that are amassing on the horizon.

.

 

**The Cycle Of Shame, The Morning After**

**Fen Causeway, Cambridge**

_It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend_

_~Jerusalem, The Worship of God, William Blake_

 

His mother’s been in remission for some weeks, and Merlin’s becoming increasingly optimistic that they’ll be able to have a fairly merry Christmas for once. Although it’s cold and dark in Cambridge at this time of year, the students still haven’t run out of money to pay for kebabs, plus the Christmas decorations, pubs and market keep luring people to the square. Will and his mother have not yet found out about his liaison with Arthur Pendragon. The audiences for Rainbow Thrash are growing every day; they’re getting quite a following.

As he cycles along Fen Causeway on his journey home, the avenue of frosty trees forming a ghostly canopy over him through the fog, he’s humming a new song he’s been composing, a light melody with a modulating acoustic guitar accompaniment. Even his frozen hands can't deflate his buoyant mood.

Fumbling, fingers numb and clumsy, he locks his trusty bike up on the railings outside, tugging the plastic Tesco bags off his handlebars, and strides through the door with a clatter. “I’m home!” he yells, tripping over Will’s carelessly discarded boots, and stumbling through the narrow passageway towards the kitchen. His toes catch in the threadbare carpet, and he curses. “Bloody hell! Will, your shoes are a bloody menace.”

Curious when there’s no answering protest from his mother about his foul language, he pushes open the kitchen door with his bum and reverses through it, spinning to place his heavy shopping bags on the work surface. His face falls when he sees the tableau that awaits him.

“Mum?” Hands now free, he steps up to put his arm round her. “What’s wrong?”

“Been ignoring the mail, again, ain’t we, Merls?” says Will, face like thunder. “Seems like someone’s got it in for us.”

“What?” With his free hand he takes the two brown envelopes Will’s holding out for him, other arm still protectively curved round his mum, whose shoulders are shaking and whose face is now buried in his shoulder.

“Found these in the bin; Hunith’s been hidin ‘em again. It’s your bloody lover-boy bloody Pendragon, that’s what it is,” says Will, fiercely. “Read it.” He nods at the first envelope, which has a Cambridge City Council watermark on it.

“Mum?” says Merlin

She shakes her head. He feels hot tears through the thin cloth of his denim jacket.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Frowning, Merlin shakes open the letter one-handed.

“Trading Standards Office” he reads. He looks up at Will, puzzled. “What? But who?”

“Read it!” says Will again.

There’s a lot of blurb and then words that make him shiver, despite the warmth from the oven and the steam that rises from the forgotten pans on the hob. Releasing his mum, he sinks against the shaky cupboard next to the sink.

“They’ve impounded the van,” he says. His hand is beginning to tremble now, the letter shivering as the full force of the words on the innocuous-looking piece of paper start to sink in. “Shit. They’ve impounded the van. But why?”

Will looks a bit shifty, then. “Looks like someone made a complaint. About the, you know. The ketchup and that. Not being Heinz.”

Merlin’s mouth is wide open; on another day his mum would be complaining about him swearing, and telling him to close his mouth or he’ll start catching flies in it, but not today. Not today. And his throat starts to swell and his eyes to blur when he reads the name of the complainant.

Arthur Pendragon.

“No,” Merlin whispers. “It can’t be… he wouldn’t… I don’t…”

Will’s accusing eyes are boring into him. “Read the other one.”

Dashing his eyes with the back of his hands, Merlin takes a deep breath and, not without trepidation, unfolds the other letter, which is from their landlady. Mouth moving dumbly as he reads, he traces out words. Words like “regret”, “eviction”, “arrears”, and “bailiffs”.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” his mum says, her voice a faint whisper. “I… I haven’t been able to pay and I didn’t want to worry you… or Will…”

He turns his back, and it takes him a while to find his voice. “They can’t,” he says, eventually, voice thick and trembling. “Mum’s ill. They can’t.”

“We haven’t paid rent for two months, Merlin,” says Will. “Mum’s not been earning anything, her pupils have all dropped out, and we need all the cash from the van to eat. I’m sorry about the bleedin’ ketchup. It were my bloody fault. We’re fucked, mate. Royally fucked. I dunno what to do. I haven’t even told Gwen yet.”

Unbidden, a sob rises in Merlin’s throat, and throughout it all, throughout the recriminations that threaten to make him yell and lash out at Will for doing that stupid ketchup substitution thing, and his mother for hiding all the financial problems from them, throughout all that, the worst, the very worst thing, the thing that makes his body shake and his chest constrict, is the dreadful sense that Arthur has betrayed him.

“Why?” he says. “Why? Why would he do that? It was all going so… what did I do wrong? I don’t understand!” His voice is starting to rise, and his mother’s fragile-feeling fingers are cold and brittle on his arm.

No one says “I told you so,” because there are some things that are best left unsaid.

He pushes blindly past them and locks himself in the loo, leaving the forgotten groceries, still in their bags, forming a forlorn pile on the faded formica work surface. 

Will and Mum were right all along, he thinks bitterly. Nothing good can come from a relationship with one of _them_. They’ll fuck you one minute, screw you the next. As for Will and Mum, well they’re patently unable to look after themselves, so Merlin will have to do it. He’ll fix this, and he’ll do it himself. Mum’s ill and Will’s a fuckwit. Merlin’s the only person who can sort this out. The moment of weakness is over; his world is colder, and harsher now than it was half an hour ago, but he can take decisive action.

Tugging his phone from his pocket he gazes at the contact list for a moment, thumb hovering. Teeth gritted, he erases Arthur Pendragon from it with a savage thumb.

Resolute, he wipes his traitorous eyes with the back of his hand, and sends Elena an apologetic text before firing up an online auction site. Let’s see if he can get those rent arrears sorted out first; the kebab van can wait.

“For sale,” he types. “Unique Fender Custom Shop guitar. Black with dragon motif. Vintage, in mint condition.” He adds a few more details, including a reserve price of £3000, and calls up a stored picture of the instrument.

Squeezing his eyes together to stop the tears, he uploads the ad.

 

**Christmas Holidays**

**Pendragon House, Grantchester, Cambridge**

_'Tis in vain to seek him here that means not to be found._

_~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

 

After a really great start, the Christmas break is not going well.

For a start off, he’s regretting his decision to cycle home for the holidays, because, although it’s only three miles, it’s perfectly flat, which means it’s no fun at all, and certainly no challenge. And then there’s the weather. The miserable, damp, soggy, unrelentingly dark-grey, dingy sky has people scuttling for cover. The streets are shining and slick, and although it’s only taken ten minutes to get back to Pendragon House from his rooms in Camelot College, he’s already been drenched, twice, by thoughtless motorists racing through puddles.

Still, when he enters the dining room, he’s maintaining an adrenaline high. On balance, he’s still in a fantastic mood. One night of glorious sexual exploration will do that for a bloke. Unaware of the impending cataclysm, he discards his rain-drenched clothing, and bounds into dinner with unaccustomed vigour.

“Evening Morgana,” he says, sitting next to her and planting a fond peck on her cheek. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you for a while. Your phone seems to be permanently switched off! We must meet up for tea more often. I—”

“Hello Arthur,” she says, shoulders rigid, eyes downcast.

He shrugs. It’s not the first time she’s been standoffish with him, no doubt it won’t be the last.

He takes his phone out of his pocket surreptitiously. Of course, Uther won’t permit phones at the dinner table, but he’s not here yet. Frowning, Arthur sees that Merlin still hasn’t responded to his latest text. He rattles off another, with a singularly funny quip about Merlin’s inability to master a simple piece of technology. Putting it away, he quietly starts interrogating their butler, George, about the menu for dinner tonight.

While they’re talking, Uther comes in, a bearded man Arthur doesn’t know at his side. “Arthur, Morgana. Good that you are here. I’d like to introduce my old friend Noah Bailey. Noah was a Mercia College man, of course, but we all have our crosses to bear! Noah, my son, Arthur and my daughter, Morgana.”

“Good evening, Father,” says Arthur. “How do you do, Mr Bailey?”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Bailey,” says Morgana at the same time.

“Call me Noah, please,” says the man with a smile. His accent’s mid-Atlantic, voice smooth. “Jeez, Penny, your kids are just as stuffy as you are, dude.”

Trying not to let his mouth drop open when he contemplates the idea of someone addressing his father as “Penny”, Arthur forces it instead into a smile and hope it’s not coming out more like a grimace.

“Betcha made ‘em both play cricket and go to your old college and all,” he adds with a wink at Morgana. “You’re such a dinosaur.”

Uther actually laughs heartily at this. “Only partly true, old friend.”

This display of humanity has Arthur’s eyes boggling and Morgana’s standing out on stalks. She looks like she’s swallowed a Scotch Bonnet chili.

Bailey’s certainly a fascinating raconteur. Over the soup course, the conversation turns to his career as a music promoter. “I was a passable guitar player myself, once upon a time, when I was a student in this ol’ town” he says. “Called myself Balinor, God I was a pompous ass. But it didn’t work out. I mean, man, got in with a great crowd, and all, but… Anyways, my talents lie more in wheeling and dealing. So, I formed Balinor Records, and the rest, as they say, is history. So, what are you kids gonna do with your lives?”

Morgana starts to speak, her soupspoon half way to her mouth. “I’m going to—”

“Morgana will marry well, of course,” Uther interrupts, “when she finishes her studies. I have a few suitable beaux lined up for her. Cenred King, for example, would be a very fine match. He contacted me, some months ago, to alert me to his interest, and we correspond regularly. I have invited him to visit us over Christmas.”

Arthur nearly chokes at that, and Morgana’s soup spoon clatters down into the bowl, splashing consommé all over the fine white table cloth. “Father!” she protests. “I thought we agreed—”

“And Arthur?” Uther interrupts her again, which makes Arthur wince, waiting for the explosion. “Arthur will go into banking. He is studying mathematics. And, in time, he, too, will marry well.” Uther’s giving Morgana a meaningful look that Arthur can’t interpret.

Realising that now is not the time to mention that he has no intention of doing anything of the sort, Arthur keeps his head down and slurps at the soup.

The explosion never comes. Morgana dabs her mouth with her napkin and excuses herself from the table, muttering something about having a migraine.

“Arthur is of course soon going to be announcing his own engagement,” says Uther, ignoring her exit. “Elena Godwinson would be a very fine choice.”

Arthur frowns. “Father, you and I need to discuss that. In private.”

“Ah,” says Bailey, his eyes trained on Arthur. “Seems your kids have minds of their own, after all, Penny. Cut the boy a little slack, dude. He’s probably got some girl in the town. I know I did, years ago.” His face goes a bit slack and dreamy-eyed. “She was a fine woman, too. I wonder what happened to her after I…”

“Relationships between townsfolk and university folk can never work, Noah,” interrupts Uther, jabbing the air with his fork for emphasis. “I’m merely trying to spare my children the pain of a failed, unsuitable relationship.”

“Y’know, Penny, old friend, I actually disagree. My father was just like you,” says Bailey, looking up with a faraway, wistful expression on his face.  “Whisked me away when he got wind of my romance, he did.” Arthur can’t help noticing that the pseudo-American accent seems to be slipping from Bailey as the evening progresses, as if it’s merely a slim veneer. “Dragged me across the ocean, leaving all the things I loved behind. I never forgave him for that. But, gee, that must have been, what? Nineteen, twenty years ago?” He sighs and returns his gaze to Uther.

“So what brings you back to the UK now, Mr Bailey?” says Arthur, changing the subject to more comfortable matters. “It can’t be the weather, that’s for sure.” He nods towards the rain-lashed window. Bang on cue, a vicious gust of wind blasts against the pane, making the raindrops rattle like gunfire.

Bailey barks out a laugh at that. “Believe it or not, young Arthur, you get sick of the LA sunshine after a while.” He takes an appreciative sip of his wine, a fine 2009 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and lets out a blissful groan. “And the crap that passes for wine over there. But, no, I’m over here looking for new talent. I reckon I might settle back in the UK” He sighs. “It’s all a bit shallow, that whole LA thing. All the beautiful people, smile at you one minute, stab you in the back the next. I’d rather be with honest, grumpy Brits, to be frank. At least you know where you are with them.”

“Really?” says Arthur, with a sly glance over at his father, who could not be described as “beautiful” by any stretch of the imagination, especially when he’s biting his tongue in his determination not to contradict a guest. “The thought of a sun-drenched existence, full of pretty people, sounds rather appealing right now.”

Snorting, Bailey stabs his steak. “I like your son, Uther,” he says, the transatlantic twang returning in full force. “I like him a lot.”

“Good,” says Uther, mouth in a thin, sour line. “Jolly good.”

“Don’t deny your children their dreams,” Bailey adds. “It can only lead to heartache, in the end. Wish I’d had kids. You’re a lucky man, Uther. If I had a son of my own I wouldn’t be so quick to—”

“Right. Well, as you don’t, Bailey, I can’t help thinking that you’re not in a position to judge—”

“So, what sort of musicians are you looking for,” asks Arthur, aware that the conversation is straying back into dangerous territory. “I have a friend who is in a fantastic band; a very talented guitarist. Maybe you’d be interested to hear them?”

“Really? I’d love to hear more.”

Arthur can almost say he is enjoying the meal after that, but Morgana’s empty chair is winking at him, accusingly. When the older men retire to the drawing room for a nightcap and a cigar, he excuses himself and goes in search of his half-sister. Drawing closer to her room, he thinks he can hear the sounds of sobbing inside.

He knocks softly. “Morgana?” he said. “Morgana are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?”

The muffled sobs stop, and are replaced by a deep, expectant silence.

Arthur tries the door but it is locked from the inside. “Morgana!” He knocks again, a little louder. “Morgana! Let me in, ok?” He keeps banging on the door.

Eventually it creaks open a crack, and he’s greeted by a sorry sight. Morgana’s normally immaculate hair is unkempt, as if she’s been clawing at it, and her eyes are red-rimmed, and sodden like the weather.

“You’ll wake the staff,” she says.

She’s not fooling Arthur; he can see the way that her lips tremble. “Morgana! What on earth is the matter? Let me in! We can talk about it, if you like. I haven’t seen you for ages. What’s happened?” Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen her since that gig, the one where he saw Merlin play the guitar.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” she whispers, staring at him with tragic, wide-open eyes. “I’m so sorry. I was weak, but Uther… It’s hard, for me, you don’t know how hard it is! I couldn’t… I’m sorry. I truly am”

“Sorry about what?”

“I didn’t want to do it, Arthur, but he made me.”

“What’s happened? Morgana?”

But the door closes in his face with a click, and he’s left none the wiser.

Sighing, he returns to his room and lies on his bed, still fully clothed. Pulling out his phone, he reviews it for messages from Merlin, but there are none. He wonders briefly if he’s done something wrong, and then shrugs and toes off his shoes so that they fall to the ground at the end of his bed with a thud. Merlin’s probably forgotten to charge his phone, or something.

And still the rain batters against the window, as if trying to gain entry.

The next day, when he looks for his half-sister, she has gone, leaving only a terse message stating that she has decided to spend Christmas with Elena.

Arthur groans when he realises that means he’ll have to entertain Cenred in her absence.

 

 

**A Drizzly Saturday Night in Lent Term**

**Market Hill, Cambridge**

_Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,_

_Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,_

_Make tigers tame and huge leviathans_

_Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands._

_~Two Gentlemen of Verona, William Shakespeare_

 

January’s never been Arthur’s favourite month. There’s no cricket, it’s dark most of the time, and weather either casts a dreary pall of drizzle over the town or, if it’s in a really good mood, sends icy winds howling from Siberia and the Baltic, across the fens and straight through the pores in his coat. This January seems set to be a record breaker for unrelentingly gloomy, damp skies; it matches Arthur’s mood perfectly.

Plus, the kebab van isn’t there, tonight; he hasn’t seen it since returning from the Christmas break. Of course, he isn’t deliberately coming back from the gym at Fenners that way in the hope of catching Merlin or anything. Market Hill is on his way back to college, that’s all.

He’s got no idea why Merlin is ignoring him, let alone why Morgana disappeared abruptly at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, and won’t return his texts or calls.

Over everything looms Uther’s most recent ultimatum; either obtain a first class honours degree, or choose a marriage partner and propose before the end of the academic year. Otherwise Uther will withdraw his financial support. Not that Arthur needs Uther’s financial support, of course, but Uther and Morgana are his only family; the thought of losing Uther’s approval altogether makes him feel hollow and on edge.

It’s a sorry state of affairs when you can truthfully say that the only bright spot on the horizon is the challenge of completing your second-year computational project.

On this dismal Saturday evening, he’s so busy counting his sorrows, while he trudges through the puddles, that he almost fails to look up when he splashes past the huddled figure of a solitary busker, who’s standing under the cloistered passageway outside French Connection.

Until, that is, he hears the song the busker is playing, and recognises his voice.

He can almost feel his pulse quicken when he turns, and he’s about to stride over and stop Merlin playing, demand that he talk to Arthur, tell him why he’s ignoring all Arthur’s messages, but a sixth sense stays his feet, and he lurks behind a pillar, instead, listening.

Merlin’s face is obscured by the hood of his too-thin sweatshirt, and he’s hunched over a battered old acoustic guitar. He’s singing what Arthur likes to think of as his song, and the music is the same, but the words are subtly different, Arthur thinks. Instead of a hopeful tone, they hold anger and hurt. Racking his brains for what he can have done to cause such pain, Arthur can find nothing, and he stokes his own frustration until he thinks it will burn a hole in his gut.

After Merlin’s final chord dies away, Arthur strides across the space between them, and tosses a coin into the empty guitar case. Merlin looks up, then, and takes a step back, until he’s pressed up against the shop window.

“Happy New Year, _Mer_ lin,” says Arthur, making his voice sound as sarcastic as possible, and ignoring the treacherous way his heart thunders against his rib cage.

Merlin actually scowls at him there. “Yeah? It’s not exactly happy in our household, Arthur, thanks to you. You arrogant shit.”

Arthur can’t help it. He actually gawps. Finding his mouth wide open, he slams it shut and clenches his jaw.

Guitar in one hand, Merlin stoops and retrieves the coin Arthur thoughtlessly tossed into his guitar case. “Here,” he says. Glaring, he presses it back into Arthur’s still-extended hand. “I don’t want your fucking money.” His voice sounds hard, but close up Arthur can see the way that his eyes glisten and his lips tremble. His eyes are sunken and his face gaunt; he looks like something terrible has happened, and Arthur feels his self-righteous anger wane, replaced by a growing sense of concern.

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly. “Are you all right? What’s happened to you?”

“What do you think?” Merlin’s lips form a narrow line, as if he’s biting on them, hard, and he’s breathing heavily now, through his nose. When Arthur steps forward to touch his arm, Merlin snatches it away, crying out “don’t touch me!” He looks like a trapped animal.

Arthur steps back, raising his arms in the air in mock surrender, but not before he’s worked out that Merlin’s clothes are soaked through, and he’s trembling beneath them. “You’ll catch your death out here, wet like that, Merlin. Come back to my rooms and dry off, at least.”

“What? I don’t believe you! After you’ve… after everything you’ve done! Do you think I’d just… just…” Merlin’s voice tails off.

“And just what exactly is it that I am supposed to have done!” Raking frustrated fingers through his hair, Arthur hears his voice rising. “All I know is that, one minute we’re... you know… playing hide the wicket… I, I mean.., having… “ he looks around and lowers his voice a bit, just in case. “Amazing sex. I mean, I’ve never… Did that not mean anything to you? And the next minute, you cut me off, Merlin. What am I supposed to think? What did I do? Did I hurt you? Why won’t you bloody talk to me? I didn’t mean to hurt you, okay?”

“The fucking van, Arthur. Have you not noticed the fact that it’s not there any more? Thanks to you!”

“What the…?” Arthur fails to see the importance of a sodding kebab van at a moment like this. “I saw it was missing, but what has that got to do with me?” He wants to yell at Merlin, but something in his stance, something in the way that his shoulders hunch and the restless searching of his brooding eyes stops him, makes him keep his voice low and even. But even then he can’t help hearing the tremor in it.

“Do you really not know?” says Merlin at last, in a small voice.

“Whatever has happened, I swear on my poor dead mother’s grave that I had nothing to do with it,” says Arthur, holding Merlin’s gaze for a long moment.

Eventually it’s Merlin who drops his eyes, and lets his guitar fall, clattering onto the damp, grey street, and he doesn’t resist when Arthur folds his arms around his shivering, damp body.

“God, Merlin,” he says, his throat feeling thick with relief as he presses chaste lips to Merlin’s damp hair. “You are an idiot. How long have you been out here? Let’s warm you up, okay? Come and have a hot chocolate or something.”

All the fire and bluster seems to have seeped out of Merlin and merged with the soggy weft of his fraying black hoody. Arthur shoulders his guitar case, and together, they wind their way up Rose Crescent and along Trinity Street towards Camelot Lane, feet squelching on the wet cobblestones.

When they get to Arthur’s rooms, Arthur hands Merlin a clean, dry pair of joggers, a dry Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt, and a towel, before discreetly popping out to make hot chocolate in the communal kitchen. When he comes back, Merlin’s changed and put his wet clothes in an array across two chairs in front of the gas fire, where they appear to be steaming gently. He’s sitting on Arthur’s bed, head in his hands; he looks up, wary-eyed, when Arthur comes in, but accepts the “how to play cricket” mug, wrapping his long fingers round it, and inhaling the heady scent of the chocolate.

“So,” says Arthur, sitting next to Merlin on the bed. “Do I get a chance to defend myself against your charges?”

Merlin huffs out a half-laugh through his nose. “I suppose so,” he says. “I suppose, I jumped to conclusions. But the van… it was your signature, Arthur. It said your name, clearly. And then there was a signature underneath it. And the van...” he says.

“You’re not making sense, Merlin,” says Arthur. “My signature on what? Not on the van, surely!”

Merlin punches him on the upper arm, making his hot chocolate slop over the edge of his mug onto his fingers. “No, you obtuse pillock.”

“Ow!” says Arthur, but warming, inwardly, when there’s a momentary upward kink of Merlin’s lips. Putting his mug down, he licks the hot, sweet mess off his hand, and fights the urge to smile when Merlin’s eyes widen and trace the movement of his tongue. “Well, what, then?”

Merlin sighs, lips tilting down again. “When you reported us to trading standards, they impounded the van.” he says flatly. “So we have no income. I need to sell my electric guitar to pay the rent, but I’ve only had pitiful bids on it, so I’m busking for cash.”

Arthur’s hardly listening now.  The rising sense of self-righteous indignation dulls his senses. How could Merlin think that of him?

“Mum can’t work,” Merlin’s saying. “She’s had a relapse, and no-one wants piano lessons from a teacher who keeps cancelling for ill health. Our landlord’s called the bailiffs. Will’s disappeared. It’s all gone to shit. Gwen’s moved in with her new boyfr—”

“What?” Arthur, furious, isn’t listening any more to this litany of woes. “How could you think I’d do that to you? How can you think that I could be that… that dishonourable?”

Merlin’s staring at him, mouth agape.

“I would never, I have never, signed anything to do with your bloody van! Someone’s obviously forged my signature, although God knows who. I swear to God, Merlin. Whoever it is must have got it in for me, for sure. But forging my signature? That’s… that’s just not cricket, Merlin!” And then Merlin’s other words start to filter through. “Your mother? She’s sick?”

Merlin nods. “She has MS. Multiple sclerosis. It comes and goes; but each time she has one of her episodes, it’s getting worse; and each time she gets better, it’s slightly less good than it was before.” To Arthur’s horror, he can see Merlin’s eyes start to shimmer before he looks down to hide the way they glisten. “They’re getting more frequent.” he whispers. “She deserves so much better.”

“Oh, my God,” says Arthur, all previous anger forgotten.

He nods, twice, pressing his lips together. “I will make this right for you, Merlin, I swear,” he says, firmly.

“Arthur,” says Merlin, in a weary voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I should have known you wouldn’t do a thing like that. You’re a superhero. Superheroes don’t… but I don’t think even you can fix this? I lo… like you, you know. I like you a lot. But, I don’t know where my head is at the moment.”

“Maybe not,” Arthur says, clearing this throat a little before he continues in a firmer voice. “Maybe I can’t fix everything. But at least tell me that you and I, together, can fix the… the thing we have together. Because I still… I lo… like you too.”

A vision springs, unbidden, into Arthur’s mind, of Morgana, tear-stained, begging him for forgiveness, and his voice tails off. He sits, frozen, jaw slack. No! She wouldn’t… would she? And why? Why would she…?

At that moment, a burst of electric guitar rings out from Merlin’s damp pocket, and he scrambles to retrieve his phone. “Will,” he says, voice sounding raw and scratched. “Where the fuck have you—? No, she’s relapsed… she’s gone in to Addenbrookes overnight… the neurologist says… of course I wouldn’t leave her on her own, what sort of an idiot do you think I am? All right, I’ll come home now.”

Merlin sounds tired when he says: “Thanks for the hot chocolate, Arthur. Look, I’m sorry I cut you out but I was… it’s hard, okay? I’ve got to go… I’ll bring back the clothes. Arthur? What are you doing?”

Arthur’s putting on his coat and pulling out his phone. “What do you think I’m doing?” he says, keying in the number of a local taxi company. “I’m coming with you, of course. Apparently there’s a piece of paper with my signature on it; I’m going to find out who put it there, and after I’ve murdered them and chopped up the pieces, I’m going apologise unreservedly to your family. It’s the least I can do.”

The wry smile that springs to Merlin’s lips is a faint shadow of the infectious laughter that had so captivated Arthur before Christmas, but he’ll take what he’s given.

Arthur has a feeling he now knows why Morgana’s been avoiding him, and given the deep, burning rage that’s building in his belly, he can’t say he blames her.

“Wait,” says Arthur, just as Merlin’s about to open the door, another thought striking him.

Merlin turns. “What?”

“What did you say, earlier, about your guitar?”

 

 

 

On the taxi journey home, with Arthur’s leg, warm and solid alongside his, the swirling thoughts in Merlin’s brain conspire to prevent him from actually speaking.

“You’re uncharacteristically silent, Merlin,” says Arthur, the soft warmth in his eyes giving the lie to the sarcastic edge in his voice.

A sharp elbow pokes Merlin in the ribs. “Oof!” he says. “Cut that out, Arthur. I’m trying to think.”

“Thought I heard a grinding sound,” says Arthur. “Are you going to tell me about your guitar, or what?”

“What?” says Merlin, trying to frown, and failing. Honestly, Arthur is the most persistent bugger he’s ever come across. Merlin started the day wallowing in perpetual gloom, sinking further into it with every hour that went by without significant cash appearing in his guitar case, but Arthur’s like some kind of a cheeriness insect, that keeps stinging him with little jabs of joy, and despite the weather, the bailiffs, his mum, his guitar, despite everything, despite himself, Merlin can’t keep stop little bursts of optimism from erupting in his head. It’s all Arthur’s fault. “You nosy sod.”

Arthur nudges him again. “You can’t sell your guitar, you know. I know a music promoter who’s mad keen to meet you.”

“Sod off Arthur.” There the smile goes again, threatening to turn Merlin’s mouth up at the edges. “You know what?”

“A music promoter. So you see, you can’t sell your guitar.”

“Look, I need the money, ok? I can buy another one when…” he pauses, with a sigh, and stares out of the window at a raindrop-distorted view of one of Hills Road’s less prepossessing multi-story car parks, rather than meet Arthur’s knowing gaze. “When I have the money.”

The truth of the matter is that he’s not sure when that’ll be. If he hasn’t got a guitar, and Will hasn’t got a kebab van, the only thing left is busking. It’s not as if his mother’s meagre incapacity benefits, if they ever get paid, will extend to saving up any actual money.

“Look,” says Arthur. “I can lend you the—”

“No!” says Merlin, pressing his mouth into a stubborn line. “I won’t be beholden to anybody.”

“But I can easily—”

“I said no, Arthur!” Merlin edged away from that too-warm, too cosy leg. “I have to make my own way.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?”

Merlin’s silent for a moment. “I do trust you,” he says at last, voice low and hoarse. “I was an idiot, and I’m sorry, and so, so relieved that you didn’t… but I need to prove to myself and the world that I can do this. And I still – actually, you matter to me, Arthur, which is why I want us to be on an equal footing.”

Arthur’s the one to sigh, then.

“I think I get it,” He says. “So, you don’t want me to lob you a slow, underarm delivery. Right? There’s a fastball coming, but you don’t want to dodge it. You want to hit it for a spectacular six.”

Punching Arthur gently on the upper arm, Merlin feels that treacherous smile returning. “Yeah!” he says. “That’s pretty much it. You know, for a cricketer, and a grad to boot, sometimes you’re quite smart.”

Snorting with laughter, Arthur turns to him. For a few pregnant seconds Merlin’s gaze is held by a pair of impossibly blue, laughing eyes. Arthur’s laugh tails off, and Merlin feels his heart inexplicably start to pound as the gap between their faces starts to close.

But the car chooses that moment to pull up at his house, braking sharply so that Merlin is jerked forwards. The invisible thread that was pulling them together snaps abruptly, and Arthur looks away.

“Yes, well,” he says. “I’m saddened that you had such a low opinion of me, that you thought I could betray you.” His language is curiously formal. “Because, as it happens, I have a very high opinion of you.”

The depth and clarity of Arthur’s gaze, and his utter sincerity, confer on Merlin a sense of deep shame.

“I’m sorry, too,” he finds himself saying, “Sorry I doubted you. Sorry that some arsehole’s trying to drive a wedge between us by hurting my family. Sorry I was stupid enough to believe them and not talk to you about it.”

“Apology accepted,” says Arthur. “Now, let’s find out who they are, and put an end to all this. Because you must believe me when I say that I swear I would never hurt you, or anyone you care about.”

Merlin nods, warmth blossoming in his chest. “I do,” he says, with an incredulous smile. “I do.” He feels better than could have been possible just a few, short hours ago.

Their faces are inching closer again, and Merlin’s head’s just tilting slightly to the side, when there’s a discreet cough from the front of the taxi.

“This is all very touchin’, an’ that, fellas,” says the driver, adjusting her mirror so she’s looking at them both, “but the clock’s still runnin’. That’s five pound eighty and countin’, if you don’t mind.”

When they get to the scruffy, faded wooden front door, its paint peeling and the number hanging upside-down by one nail, Merlin tries not to feel too embarrassed about the poverty of his home circumstances. “It’s a pre-stressed wood door,” he says, with a shrug. “Designer decor and all that.”

But then Will goes and opens the door, before Merlin’s even got his keys out of his pocket, and glowers at them both with such ferocity that it kind of ruins the effect. He turns without a word, thundering up the stairs, and Merlin steers Arthur into the tiny living room, which is littered with piles of sheet music. A battered music stand sits in one corner. The only place to sit is the piano stool. Hastily gathering up some Grade 5 Musical Theory test papers to make some space, Merlin gestures to Arthur to sit, and then backs out of the room.

“I’ll just get those documents,” he calls through the open door while he rummages in the cupboard under the stairs for the old cardboard box his mother keeps her financial papers in. “Then we can work out what’s what.” It takes him a while, but eventually he returns with them in a pale-blue foolscap folder.

He hands it to Arthur, who swallows as if trying to stop himself speaking, and tugs them out with a frown. Merlin can’t help biting his lip while Arthur reads; he doesn’t know what he wants Arthur to say, doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. He only knows that he’s holding onto Arthur not being the culprit as if it’s a lifeline.

By the time that Arthur looks up, Merlin’s given up trying to look nonchalant and has taken to pacing around the room, which given its modest size and the level of clutter, basically means shifting his weight from one foot to another and doing tiny pirouettes.

“Merlin, why don’t you go and get a cup of tea?” says Arthur, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be a while longer, and I can’t concentrate with you ballet-dancing two feet away.”

“Ballet dancing?” Indignant, Merlin turns on his heels. “I’m a rock musician, not a ballet dancer! Not that there’s anything wrong with ballet… and I was going to make a cup of tea anyway, prat.”

“Really, Merlin?” drawls Arthur, as Merlin retreats into the kitchen to resume his pacing. “You could have fooled me. I could almost hear your old ballet teacher shouting ‘plié’ at you.” 

“Not listening!” Merlin clatters about, assembling teabags and trying to find a mug that isn’t chipped. “And don’t be an arse. Ballet dancers are well fit. Milk and sugar?”

“Do you have Earl Grey?”

“Don’t be daft. It’s a choice of Tesco’s red label or…” Merlin rummages at the back of the cupboard and retrieves a dubious-looking ancient packet of decaffeinated PG Tips from the back of the cupboard, and peers into it, nose wrinkling. A solitary, soggy brown parcel lurks at the bottom. “Actually, I’d go with the Tesco’s red label if I was you.”

“Well, in that case, with milk, please. And don’t make it too strong. And lots of sugar. Two spoons.”

“I’ll try to take your delicate constitution into account,” says Merlin, rolling his eyes. “Petal.”

By then Arthur’s finished reading the documents and he appears in the doorway brandishing them like a sheaf of flowers. “This is all bullshit,” he states. “I don’t recognise the writing, either. But I’m willing to testify to Trading Standards on Will’s behalf, if you want.”

“You are?” Merlin feels his expression soften considerably.

“Of course.” Arthur steps forward until their noses are almost touching, and cups Merlin’s bicep in a warm, firm hand. “On one condition,” he purrs, his breath warm on Merlin’s cheek, making him gulp.

“What’s that,” says Merlin, voice a mere croak.

“Go out for dinner with me.”

Their faces are almost touching; Merlin imagines the fine hair on Arthur’s cheek stirring his own, and it would be the work of just one moment to step forward and brush Arthur’s bitten-pink lips with his mouth…

“You can’t hold my friend’s prosecution by Trading Standards for ransom,” says Merlin, instead, swallowing thickly. “That’s… that’s not cricket.”

Arthur sighs, releasing his arm. “I suppose not.”

He looks so forlorn that Merlin almost changes his mind, but he meant what he said, he doesn’t want to be indebted to Arthur, doesn’t want to be accused of being a gold-digger. 

“Maybe one day,” he says, softly, instead. “When I’m not in this deep financial hole any more. I’d like to. I’d like to, then, Arthur. I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow and dip down to Merlin’s mouth and back again before he answers. “I can,” he says, in a low, intent voice that makes Merlin shiver. “I can think of lots of things. It didn’t stop you before.”

“Me too,” says Merlin, desperately looking for the words. “Look, it was different, before. I had my guitar! We had a van. I know we weren’t exactly rich, but we could look after ourselves. And now… the plain fact of the matter is, now we can’t. I can never feel right being with someone like you until I can… you know. Reciprocate. Surely you understand that?”

“In other words, you’re a proud, stubborn idiot,” says Arthur, with a note of fond exasperation in his voice. “But unfortunately, I understand that all too well.”

“Right.” Merlin feels his lips quirking up in a genuine grin. “So. How do we go about finding out whose signature this is, then?”

Arthur sighs, heavily. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I have my suspicions. And I’m bloody well going to find out. You can be sure of that.”

 

 

**Later in Lent Term**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_I have come up with a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel._

_~Blackadder, Richard Curtis_

 

Burrowing his head under the covers, Arthur almost wishes that he could go back to the time when Hilda and Alice used to have loud slanging matches outside his room at six in the morning. At least in those halcyon days he could derive some amusement from their conversation. But these days they are waking him equally early with whispered conversations conducted just on the other side of his door, and he has to strain his ears, to catch a few snippets, which is downright rude.

The icing on the cake, or rather the lack of icing on the distinct lack of cake, of this whole miserable situation with Merlin and the Trading Standards Officer, is that Merlin’s aunt, Alice, who also happens to be Arthur’s bed-maker, is no longer speaking to him, nor is she bringing him ample portions of home-made raspberry-and-toffee Bakewell mousse cake. While this state of affairs is better for his waistline, he can’t help feeling that it’s just another reason why he’s going to find out who that dastardly complaint-signing monster is, and beat them to a pulp with his trusty cricket bat, Excalibur.

Their voices have risen again.  He can just make out the gist of their exchange if he doesn’t breathe.

“...Pendragon… my nephew…” one of them—Alice, he thinks—is saying in the sort of irritated stage-whisper that hints of a strong underlying desire to murder someone, “... never would have thought… just goes to show, you think you know people… those Pendragons, you can’t trust…”

Shocked, Arthur sits up in bed. What the hell? But it doesn’t take a genius to work out what they’re arguing about.

“… ridiculous, Alice,” the other voice is saying—Hilda the hatchet-faced harridan, he decides, mentally—“… no good can come of… Town and Gown… lower-class gold-digging yobbo like your nephew… dearie, dearie me, no… Pendragon… destined to marry… nice girl of his own station… like my El—”

“How dare you!” Alice’s voice rises, and there’s a thud, followed by a muffled shriek. “My nephew is as good as anybo—”

There’s another, louder, more indignant squawk, followed by a loud noise against his door, as if something large, heavy and soft had fallen against it with great force. “Oof!” says a voice, and then silence.

After a moment or two, the door opens and a mop of unkempt, iron-grey hair peeps round it, followed by an ingratiating grin.

“Er, Mr Pendragon?” says Hilda, in a simpering tone that doesn’t fool him for a second. “Would you mind awfully if I called… I am terribly sorry, but Alice appears to have, I think maybe she needs to…”

“Hilda you obnoxious old baggage!” snaps a louder voice, still on the landing at the top of the staircase. “Leave Mr Posh Lah-Di-Dah Too-Good-For-A-Townie Pendragon alone, and bloody well help me up off the floor, you evil cow. I’ve sprained my ankle, that’s all. I’d report you for assault, but you’re too pathetic, and it’s too much hassle, so you’ll just have to call the porters. Come along.” 

The door draws closed with an apologetic “click” and Arthur sighs, heavily, hauling himself out of bed and pulling on some jogging bottoms. He bets that bloody Stephen Hawking doesn’t have to put up with these sorts of shenanigans before breakfast.

But Alice glares at him mutinously, and refuses his offer of a hand, even though she’s clearly unable to negotiate the staircase. Arthur leaves her with Hilda, and jogs off to the porter’s lodge instead, returning with George, the Head Porter, who provides a sturdy arm as he guides the still-muttering Alice to a waiting taxi.

It’s an inauspicious start to the day, but it’s too early for lectures, and he’s too wide awake to go back to bed, so he turns his thoughts to Merlin’s dilemma instead. Merlin is a proud person, Arthur gets that. He’d be much the same if their roles were reversed. But the economic situation is pretty difficult; Merlin’s guitar is his only valuable asset, and, yet, his music is his sellable skill.

Suddenly, he’s assailed by a thought; a thought so irresistible that it must be destiny. Grinning, he dials Leon’s number, which rings several times before going to voicemail. Frustrated, Arthur pokes at his phone a few times until finally Leon’s tired-sounding voice comes on the line.

“What the fuck, Arthur?” says Leon. “It’s six thirty in the bloody morning, you twat.”

“Wait, Leon,” says Arthur, hastily, before Leon hangs up again. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait? Until, you know, it’s actual daytime or something.”

“No! Leon, look, bear with me, okay? I have a cunning plan!”

“What? Count me out, Arth—”

“Listen to me, Leon, you great oaf! Look, you know your ebay account? You can go back to sleep when you tell me your login details.”

“No way.”

“All right, well in that case, I’m coming over.” Arthur’s already scrambling to haul on his underpants and jeans. “Put the kettle on. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Arthur!”

“Be there in five!”

This was better. He may not be able to work out, yet, just who had stitched him and Merlin up, not to mention Will and all Merlin’s family; and he may not be able to give Merlin any cash to make amends, not without Merlin getting all huffy because of the inequality this introduces into their budding friendship; but he can do one thing to help, and Merlin won’t know a thing about it.

Oh yes, he has a plan, all right.

 

**A Few Days Later**

**Scruffy, Nondescript Council Estate, Cambridge**

_You can cut the tension with a cricket stump_

_~Murray Walker_

 

With his jaw glued together by toffees, the only things left over from the Christmas _Quality Street_ box, Merlin’s finding it difficult to swallow, let alone speak, so jiggles madly on his bed to gain Will’s attention, and once he’s got it, hands over his phone in answer to Will’s questioning eyebrows.

“Mmmumrurmd”, he says, gesticulating in a way that he hopes Will can interpret as “Bloody hell, would you take a look at the current bidding on my guitar?”

Will’s eyes roll and his shoulders are rigid, but he looks, and an incredulous smile breaks his face in two. “Holy shitting fuck, Merlin you lucky genius bastard. You’ve only gone and got yourself a bloody last-minute bidding war going on!”

Finally Merlin’s toffee reduces to a manageable size and he gulps it down.

“I know!” he says, licking goo off his teeth. “Two days ago there was nothing happening, but now the auction’s nearly ended, these two bidders jumped in and they just keep upping the price.”

“You’ve only been and gone and done it, Merlipoos you fucking angel,” says Will, clapping him on the back. “That’s enough for five months’ rent, mate. Now all we’ve got to do is work out how to un-impound the van, and get our late licence back, and we’ll be back in business.”

Sure enough, someone with the username bravebravesirleon has put in a last minute bid for £5300, which beats the previously high bid of £5200 from the other user, Balinor.

“Arthur’s dealing with the Trading Bloody Standards office. He’s going to withdraw his ‘complaint’. We’re going to get us the van back, mate, don’t you worry.” says Merlin with a lopsided smile.

“Fuck, though,” says Will. He sounds beyond excited. “That’s more than your sodding guitar’s worth bloody new. That’s the sort of price you fetch for something a famous player owned.”

Merlin sighs. Despite everything, the regret at having to let it go tugs and squeezes deep in his gut, making it hard for him to breathe. “It’s a custom made guitar,” he says, swallowing. “Unique. They must be collectors or something. I dunno.” He looks at the names again. “Balinor? Like the record label?” He sighs, heavily. “I suppose I’ve got to do it, but—” He’d been kind of hoping that the reserve price wouldn’t be met, which was stupid, because they needed the money.

Seeing his expression, Will’s face falls. “I know, I know,” he says. “It’s all right mate, okay?” Will claps Merlin, hard, on the back again, so that his body jerks forward. “We’re gonna get the van back, and we’re gonna earn bloody… bloody shed loads of cash doing May balls and festivals and shit, and then we’ll get you a brand new guitar. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll hand over the guitar and handle all the cash, all right?”

“Thanks.” Merlin nods, but there’s a lump in his throat that’s nothing to do with the toffee, and everything to do with the fact that the guitar with the dragon tattoo is the only link he has ever had to his unknown father. Whispering to disguise the tremor in his voice, and looking down to hide the way his lips twist, he adds. “It’s a good thing, right, Will?”

For once, Will doesn’t say anything, and Merlin’s grateful for that. He’s not sure he’d be able to cope with Will’s sympathy.

Still, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. A few minutes later, the guitar is sold, the auction is over, the exchange between Will and bravebravesirleon is organised, and what’s done is done.

Sighing, he pulls on some clothes and heads off to see Uncle Gaius, who’s asked him to pop round to the pharmacy. It’s very quiet, today, and Gaius, seeing him, hands over a prescription bag to the single customer in line. That dealt with, he steps out from round the counter, snapping the trapdoor shut behind him.

“Ah, Merlin!” he says, voice all quiet-like, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Thanks for coming in.” He looks shiftily round the room, and puts a conspiratorial hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin,” he says, hissing out his name in a harsh whisper “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want Alice to hear, do you understand?”

Merlin frowns. “Er – all right? But what’s the matter?” he says in a normal voice.

Gaius shushes him with a harsh sound, and carries on muttering into his ear. “She’ll hear. She’s got hawk-like hearing, you know that."

Sure enough, bang on cue, an enquiring voice calls out from behind the shop, “Merlin? Is that you, love? Gaius? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Alice, dear!” Gaius calls in reply, just a little bit too hastily, flapping his hands at Merlin to shut up. “Be with you in a moment my little Allicle. Merlin just needs some… some verruca cream, don’t you Merlin?”

Hiding his snigger behind his hand, Merlin leans forward to hear what Gaius wants to say.

“It’s about Arthur. “

“Arthur?” Merlin feels his brows draw together. “Arthur Pendragon?”

“Yes! Arthur, your, ahem, friend,” says Gaius in a low tone, his face serious for a second. “Alice won’t tell you herself, because she’s being stubborn about it, and she’s upset with Arthur, but I think he might be in trouble, and I thought that, as you’re, ahem , friends again, you might… You see…”

He breaks off when they both hear a rhythmic thud, click, thud, click sound from the other room, as if someone is hopping around on crutches. Gaius' eyebrow rises and he turns towards the sound. “Don’t strain yourself getting up, Ally Pally my love,” he yells through the door.

Turning back to Merlin with a finger to his lips, he pulls him in a little closer. “You see,” he carries on, so close that his breath makes Merlin’s ear tickle, “Alice thinks Hilda pushed her, on purpose, when she sprained her ankle.”

“What? Who? When did Alice—?”

“Shh! I’m trying to tell you.” He looks, alarmed, back towards the door into the room behind the shop, where the thud-click sounds are stopping, as if someone’s just reached the door and is about to free their hands to turn the handle. Turning back, he lowers his voice even further. “Hilda! Arthur’s new bed-maker! She’s up to something; Alice thinks she’s been trying to get rid of her for a while. I think it’s to do with Arthur. I think Hilda is up to no good. She’s going to do something to Arthur. You have to find out what she’s doing, Merlin.”

“But how am I supposed to—”

He’s interrupted by Alice entering the room, hair skewiff, but a determined expression on her face. “Now then Gaius,” she says, firmly, frowning at them both. “You’re not bothering poor Merlin with—”

“No, no!” says Gaius, eyes widening.

“Of course not,” says Merlin at the same time. They exchange a guilty look.

Alice frowns at them. “Do you think I’m stupid?” she snaps. “Look at the pair of you. You look like I’ve caught you with your hands in the till! You didn’t even wait for me to finish the question.” Her eyes narrow to two frosty, suspicious dots. “You’re up to something. Show me what’s in your hand, Gaius.” Leaning her crutches on the counter to free her hands, she starts to prise Gaius’s fingers open, chattering accusingly all the while. “You’re not seeing that Arthur again are you, Merlin? No good can come of it, you know. You know what people will say, that you’re a gold-digger and—Oh!”

Pursing his lips, Gaius opens his hand.

Alice’s cheeks redden. “Oh!” she says again. “Why didn’t you tell me not to pry!” Turning her back, she hobbles back towards the back room. “Come in and have some cake, then, Merlin,” she says over her shoulder. “If you’re going to use all twelve of those flavoured condoms, you’re going to need as much energy as you can get.”

This time it’s Merlin’s turn to blush. “Right you are, Auntie,” he says, feeling the heat spreading down his neck and up towards his hairline. When Gaius starts to chuckle at him, Merlin grins and tosses the other item in his hand towards him so that it bounces off his balding pate and falls to the floor.

Stooping, gingerly, Gaius picks it up and frowns at it, turning it over.

“Verruca ointment,” it says on the outside. “Topical. Not for internal use.”

 

 

**A Few Days Later,**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_There are lots of things I really like besides girls. Like pizza. And pranking. And Chuck Norris._

_~Justin Bieber_

 

Arthur really can’t wait for poor Alice’s ankle to heal, even if she has developed a sudden dislike for him. Hilda the hatchet-faced harridan of H staircase is just not as competent.

Today, for example, he’s just come back to his room with Leon to pick up some critical supplies; when he enters, not only are the bedclothes and neat papers on his desk in disarray, but there’s what appears to be blood, but on closer inspection turns out to be red candlewax, on his desk.

“What the fuck?” he says, showing the blob of wax to Leon, who shrugs.

“Maybe she was burning a scented candle to get rid of your awful stench,” Leon quips.

Arthur tackles him into a wrestling hold “You’re a fine one to talk, mate. You smell worse than a cricket club shoe-locker. On a goat farm. Next to a land-fill site.”

“Fuck off, Arthur,” says Leon, grinning as he extricates himself. “Now, where’s all the goods?”

With a final sharp gesture that has Leon wincing and covering his balls in mock-terror, Arthur strides over to his bed and extracts a large banker’s box. “Here we go,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

“Right you are, chief,” says Leon, and “Oof!” this last in response to receiving a heavy box to the stomach.

The awful tedium of the indoor training is starting to drag, and there is danger that the Camelot College Cricket Squad will stop training and slip into the wintertime trap of overindulgence and lack of exercise.

Worse still, several of the team are also in the college football team, which is great for their overall fitness, but Arthur is worried about injuries. Percy is training with the university football squad. And if he loses Percy, the whole team will suffer.

Arthur knows he can’t use mere coercion to force his men to train on dark, drizzly winter mornings like this one—not when wraiths of stifling, freezing fenland fog creep past the famous spires and turrets of the college chapel and settled over the courtyard, a pale blanket that sucks all colour from the world, leaving only degrees of grey. Not when damp, misty tendrils insinuate themselves through every pore in every fabric, soaking the hapless student to the skin within seconds.

No, on days like these it is important to rally his men with incentives beyond mere physical fitness. Revenge and schadenfreude have no place in this, or so he tells himself. This is all about motivating his men.

All of which might explain why, a few minutes later, he finds himself in Gwaine’s room with Leon, having blagged a room key from the porter with some cock-and-bull story about Gwaine having mislaid his cricket kit.

Gwaine himself is in rare attendance at a history lecture, flanked by Lance and Myror, and lured by the incentive of a sweet-faced and entirely fictional young filly who allegedly has a crush on Gwaine and is known for her generous sexual appetite. Meanwhile, Percy is keeping watch at the bottom of Gwaine’s staircase, and is in constant radio contact with Lance, who has strict instructions to send an immediate text if Gwaine gets bored and attempts to leave the Sidgwick site early.

Arthur takes his duties as Captain very seriously indeed.

They work quietly and systematically, starting with the ceiling and working themselves down the walls onto all the furniture, including Gwaine’s desk and all his electronic equipment, not to mention the congealing and no-doubt unhygienic heap of smelly socks that graces his floor. It’s a tough job, but they’re determined, and they’re resourceful, and by the time they’ve finished they’re also full of satisfaction at a job well done.

The final touch is to arrange a webcam in a judiciously placed area of the wall where Gwaine will be hard-pressed to find it, so that the full force of his perplexed expression upon entry into his room will be captured for posterity.

Arthur stands back, arms folded, still panting with exertion, and surveys his handiwork.

Over seven hundred identical, overlapping A4 portraits of Justin Bieber adorn every available surface of Gwaine’s bedsit.

Justin is pinned to Gwaine’s bed. He’s sellotaped to Gwaine’s bookshelves. He’s blu-tacked over Gwaine’s vintage Christmas playboy posters. His grinning, floppy-hair-topped face smiles out at them from Gwaine’s bedclothes, his cricket bat, and, in an artful touch that Arthur’s rather proud of, his lamp shade.

A pink-faced Leon, at Arthur’s side, is bent in two, helpless with laughter.

Snorting, Arthur pulls the finishing touch out of his bag, a pair of enormous, latex comedy breasts, and drapes them elaborately over the back of Gwaine’s desk chair.

“Come on, Captain,” says Leon. “Let’s relieve the other men from their critical duties, and bugger off back to my room. I’ve got a brand new guitar I’d like you to admire.”

Luckily Arthur can’t see his own triumphant smirk in the mirror, coated as it is with Justins. “Yeah,” he says. “Did Merlin suspect anything?”

“Not a bleeding thing, mate,” says Leon, beaming. “Not a bleeding thing. Any idea who the other bidder was?”

“Nope!” says Arthur. “But whoever they are, I’m grateful. It would have been tricky to invent another persona with sufficient credibility to up the bidding.”

“Well,” says Leon, thoughtfully, as they clatter down the stairs and click open the door at the bottom of Gwaine’s staircase. “For what it’s worth, this Merlin bloke seems like a nice enough guy, but are you sure he’s worth £5300?”

“To be honest,” says Arthur, stepping through the door and holding it open for Leon, who’s hot on his heels as they join Percy. “I’ve a feeling he’s worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

 

  

 

After the door has slammed shut behind them, no-one sees Hilda—Gwaine’s, and now also Arthur’s, bed-maker—stepping out from where she’s been hiding in the broom cupboard.

Silently she observes the closed stairwell door with glittering eyes.

“So,” she says to herself. “Practical jokers, are we?”

There’s no one left to see the sly grin that spreads across her features. 

 

 

**Two Weeks Later**

**Market Square, Cambridge**

_A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship_

_~The Book Thief, Markus Zusak_

 

Great flurries of snow are falling, swirling round the pillars outside French Connection, and coming to rest in odd nooks and crannies of Market Hill. That morning, a blanket of snow had covered the streets and narrow houses in their scruffy cul-de-sac, and Merlin had decided to walk into town, guitar and all, rather than risk slithering around on his bike. Drifts adorn the cubby-holes along the ancient rooftops of the colleges; mournful gargoyles sit with their mouths blocked and their heads covered. Everywhere there’s an expectant sense, a feeling of timelessness, as if the earth is alert, waiting for something wonderful to happen.

He’s playing a gloomy song that he wrote when he thought that Arthur had… well, it was an emotional time, let’s say. He’s got an audience; two teenage girls wearing ski-hats with long tassels have come out of French Connection with shopping bags, and stand staring at him, chewing gum. He turns to them, and smiles while he sings. They don’t look like the usual sort to tip generously; he normally relies more on harassed-looking students, shuffling back from their lectures with other-worldly expressions on their faces, but maybe these girls will leave him something.

“ _I had a love_ ,” he sings, punctuating his words with sharp jabs at the strings in a minor key. “ _His skin was gold; I lost myself in the lies he told._ ” He lets his voice crack, artfully, and fills the space with a progression of tumbling chords. “ _I had a love_ ,” he sings again. “ _His eyes were bold; his skin was warm, but his heart was cold._ ” He lets a pained, angst-filled expression appear, and nods his head, drawing up his knee to emphasise the angry closing sequence.

The square falls silent and the girls stand there, chewing.

“You a poof?” says one, matter-of-factly, blowing a pink bubble which expands and pops across her face. Drawing the strands back in with her tongue, she recommences her chewing. “You look like a poof.”

“Do you know any Ed Sheeran?” chimes in her friend. When he shakes his head, she shrugs. “Come on Chloe,” she says. “I want to get to M&S before it closes.”

“Philistines,” he mutters under his breath as they retreat, shuffling through the slush, making parallel tracks with their Ugg boots. “You can take your Ed bloody Sheeran and shove him up your—”

“So,” interrupts a drawling voice, as Arthur steps out from behind a pillar, clapping slowly. “Cold hearted, am I? I didn’t tell you any lies, actually.” He’s wearing a Camelot College scarf and hat, and thick, waterproof ski mitts with his expensive-looking, red thermal jacket. But his nose is pink, and his lips look pinched and chapped.

Despite the intense cold, Merlin feels heat crawling up his neck, blooming across his throat and exploding across his cheeks. “Erm… Arthur! I… well, it’s a good song, I know you’re not really, well I do now anyway, but back when I wrote it I…”

Arthur’s chuckling, now, the bastard. He reaches round Merlin’s shoulder and gently removes the guitar strap. “Come with me,” he says. “Your fingers are going blue. We can’t have you losing your greatest asset to frostbite, now, can we?”

Merlin smirks. “My greatest asset is carefully stored under several layers of thermal underwear, actually,” he says, laughing when Arthur blushes and protests with a squawked “Oi!” “But I do need a break. Where are we going?”

“You’ll see!”

“Ah. I get it. A sort of mystery tour, full of snow-scattered turrets and frozen toes.”

“Something like that,” says Arthur.

“Hope there’s hot chocolate at the end of it. I’ll do anything for hot chocolate.”

“Anything?” says Arthur, one eyebrow disappearing beneath his thermal hat.

Grinning, Merlin tilts his head on one side and looks him up and down appraisingly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Pretty much anything.”

“Well… in that case,” says Arthur, stepping forward to pick up Merlin’s guitar case, “hot chocolate will definitely be involved.”

There’s a joyful feeling, growing in intensity and warmth, somewhere behind Merlin’s rib cage as they walk and flirt, exchanging knowing glances. Burying his hands deep within the pockets of his heavy winter-coat, he lets his elbows nudge Arthur’s as they walk.

Cambridge is at its best, like this; the falling snow quietens the sound of the few remaining cars, and as they trudge through the deepening snow, it crunches satisfyingly under their feet. Approaching the Backs of the Colleges across the river, using the Garrett Hostel Lane foot bridge, Merlin wonders where Arthur is taking him. It’s not Camelot College, that’s for sure.

There’s a light layer of ice on the Cam. Crystals merge like huge fingers clawing towards the diminishing, black, unfrozen area towards the centre. Without discussion, the two men stop on the bridge for a moment, watching a pair of ducks circling and diving into what remains of the inky water, and gazing at the view over towards St John’s College. Tiny white triangles adorn the corners of the arches on the Bridge of Sighs, while more snow drops like frozen kisses onto their skin.

“I love the snow,” says Arthur softly. “It makes everything look clean, for a while. Forgiven, you know? And quiet, like hope.”

Merlin stares at him for a moment in mock incredulity.

“What?” says Arthur, smiling. He’s pulling together a blob of snow on the parapet of the bridge; rapidly it forms into the shape of a miniature, fat snowman under his fingers. “I know I’m studying maths, but I’m not a complete philistine, you know?”

Merlin can’t help the way his lips twitch and surprised guffaw erupts from him, producing clouds of steam around Arthur’s damp head. “I’m beginning to realise you’re more than just an extremely ugly face, Arthur,” he says.

“Take that back, you sarcastic, town-dwelling bastard!“ says Arthur, mock hurt. An evil glint in his eye is the only warning before a handful of snow is thrust down Merlin’s back, making him shout out in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice.

“I’ll get you for that!” says Merlin, grabbing a handful of snow off the parapet with his left hand, and chucking it ineptly at Arthur’s face.

Arthur ducks. “I wouldn’t,” he says, grinning, grabbing Merlin and twisting his free arm behind his back. “It’s a bad idea starting a snowball fight with a cricketer.”

Merlin pouts. “Ow!” he says, trying to ignore how his body responds to the power in Arthur’s arms. “I didn’t start it, you did! And anyway, I’m not that bad at throwing, myself! If I wasn’t carrying my guitar…”

“In your dreams!” says Arthur, releasing his arm.

The rapidly worsening weather has driven people inside, and for a while they’re in a lonely, isolated cocoon, wreathed in whirling flakes and the swirling mists that leave their mouths when they breathe. Like the snow, Merlin feels like he’s drifting in the wind, letting his purpose and drive fly way for the moment, being swayed only by the flow and ebb of his feelings. Unconsciously he finds himself leaning closer to Arthur. It is as though a tiny thread draws his moist lips to Arthur’s chapped ones.

They inch closer with an exquisite inevitability. Merlin lets his eyes flutter closed, so that when their mouths finally touch, it’s an explosion of sensation that makes him groan. They remain, embracing, locked together in their private world on top of the bridge for an infinite moment, warm gusts of breath shielding them from view as they kiss.

“You know,” says Merlin, when finally they break apart, gasping for air and with the intensity of their proximity. “It’s not a bad place to live. I suppose.” He’s trembling, and not just because of the cold, but Arthur’s a solid, warm presence, his arms and legs lined up along Merlin’s, lending him strength.

“You’re the best thing in it,” says Arthur firmly; his eyes are suddenly very blue and piercing, a startling splash of colour against the dull grey of the sky and the pale, skeletal, snow-draped trees.

Lowering his lashes against the onslaught of Arthur’s gut-wrenching honesty, Merlin casts about for a response that’s sincere without sounding cheesy, and fails. He looks back up with a smile, instead.

“Thank you,” he says. “But I rather think that I disagree.”

“Oh yeah?” says Arthur, pulling Merlin closer until they’re practically speaking into each other’s mouths. “What would you nominate as a better thing? Not Will and Gwen’s van…”

“Defunct,” interjects Merlin, solemnly.

“… now regrettably defunct,” continues Arthur smoothly, “Surely not that. Is it the wonderful Professor Stephen Hawking, perhaps?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nope.”

“The elderly architectural masterpieces? The vile, modern architectural monstrosities?”

Arthur’s teasing him, Merlin knows, but he’s got a peculiarly insecure expression on his face, and Merlin knows he has to tell Arthur how he really feels, even though he does it better in the words of a song.

“It’s you of course, you prat!” he blurts out, blushing at his own inarticulacy. “You surprisingly smooth-talking, gorgeous, posh bastard! God, the moment you strode up to Will’s van, stark bollock naked, like you bloody owned the place, I was a goner, Arthur. And then when you rescued us, that time, all dressed in comedy cricket whites, like… like some kind of medieval, cricketing knight… just, you’re amazing, all right? I can’t believe I ever thought you could do anything so weaselly and dishonourable as that bloody eviction thing. It’s been eating me up, that I could be that stupid, and you… you’ve been so bloody forgiving about it. I just don’t know, you’re too bloody perfect, I can’t—”

The rest of this speech is swallowed, as Arthur’s mouth seeks his and silences it.

“You talk too much,” Arthur explains after a long, extremely pleasant moment. Merlin can feel his lips moving as he speaks, and they share a smile, mirroring one another.

When Arthur pushes him away, he feels suddenly cold, and moves as if to pull him back in again, but Arthur stills him with a firm hand. “Come on,” he says. “We’re not there yet. And you’re shivering.”

It was true. Now that they are not embracing, judders wrack Merlin’s body and his teeth actually start to chatter.

“Let’s get you warm,” says Arthur, pulling him along by the elbow. “Come on!”

“Where are we going, again?”

“It’s a secret,” says Arthur, a ridiculously smug grin plastered all over his face. Merlin has to fight the urge to suck it off with urgent kisses.

Merlin’s never been to Avalon College, before, which is not surprising, given that it’s an all-female college with a reputation for angry-eyed porters and terrifyingly intellectual undergraduates.

So he’s all eyes when Arthur tugs him through the gate, past the vigilant porters, and through the silent cloisters. He feels like he’s invaded a priory, inhabited by a particularly fierce order of disapproving nuns.

But when Arthur knocks on the anonymous-looking oak-panelled door to a room, hidden within the inner sanctum, it opens, revealing a familiar riot of pink-and-blue hair through the crack. Elena’s face follows, festooned with delighted-looking smiles.

“Merlin!” she exclaims. “Arthur said he’d find us a guitar player! Come in, boys!”

Before he can protest, he’s being pulled into the room, Arthur stepping in behind him. It’s a cluttered practice room, littered with instruments and music stands. A part-assembled drum-kit sits in one corner, and the two other members of Rainbow Thrash are standing about with similar expressions of delighted surprise on their faces.

“Merlin!” says Nim, stepping out from behind the keyboards to press a peck to his cheek. “Oh my God! Are you coming back? Please say you are!”

Freya comes to him and, moving her bass guitar to one side, she pats him on the shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you,” she says shyly. “I wanted it to be you.”

He’s a little overwhelmed at the warmth of their welcome, and feels a deep sense of disquiet that he’s going to have to disappoint them. “Look,” he begins, “I love you all, right, but I can’t. I mean, I don’t have an electric guitar any more! I’ve only got this battered old thing.” He lifts his acoustic guitar case as if to confirm his words. “You need a lead guitar player, not a washed-up busker with no cash.”

It’s been an emotional morning, and for a moment he has to look down, to hide the way his eyes start to prickle and his throat starts to seize up. He hates letting people down. It’s happened to him enough in his life… he never wants to do that to anyone.

But Elena’s got a hand on his elbow and is practically dragging him across the room.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “If you’d bothered to return my calls, you complete numpty, you would have realised that I have an electric guitar you can borrow. It’s not as nice as your custom Fender, but bloody hell, Merlin, it’ll do, for now, all right?”

She practically thrusts him towards what looks like a plain, basic Stratocaster in cobalt blue.

“It’s cheap and cheerful compared to yours, I know, but it’ll do, right?”

“I’ve never got the hang of it,” she carries on. “I thought you could play it till you have time to save up for a new one.”

Merlin’s overwhelmed.

“I can’t!” he says. “I mean… you’d do that for me?” He doesn’t deserve this second chance.

“Not just for you,” says Freya, in her soft, shy voice. “It’s for us, Merlin. We have been hired for four May Balls! We need you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” adds Arthur. “This is not charity. The band needs a guitarist, and you need a guitar. It’s a win-win transaction.” 

Gingerly he picks it up and runs his fingers along the fret. Rosewood, he thinks. Delicately, he twangs a few chords. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt if I…”

They’re all grinning at him, and it feels rather wonderful to be part of a band again. “So,” he says smiling back while he makes minute adjustment to the tuning keys. “It’s been a while, I suppose. What’s new?”

Elena pouts. “Nothing much,” she says, drumstick between her teeth, leaning to tighten the screw attaching the high hat cymbal to its stand. That finished, she removes the drumstick and pulls a comical, self-deprecating face. “Apart from the usual, idiot student stuff, you know. Locked myself out of my room one time. Then there was that time I had a couple too many drinks and fell off my bike. Morgana came to stay at Christmas, and my old Nanny, Hilda, walked out in a huff. Oh, and I got a new nipple piercing.”

“Nice,” says Merlin, not sure how to greet this news. “Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurt like fuck. But in a good way, you know?” She gesticulates towards her left boob with a grimace, which makes him laugh. Elena’s got the most expressive face, and she’s so open and sunny-natured, it’s hard not to be charmed by her. She reminds him a bit of Gwen, in that regard. “Oh, and last week, some filthy pervert broke into my room and stole all my underwear, which was a bit freaky.”

“No way!” he grimaces in sympathy.

“Yes, way! Really weird; they must have blagged a key to get in and everything. They were my lucky Chrissie Hynde underpants, and I was seriously annoyed, because, you know, custom made! And not to mention, someone nicking my pants? Yuck. Oh, and one more thing.” Her eyes narrow and bore into him accusingly; he has to look away. “Found out that the bloody guitar player from our band is a stubborn, obstinate old fart who doesn’t know who his friends are.”

He knows exactly what she’s getting at, although he’s not sure how she’s managed to make him feel guilty about the whole sorry business. “Look,” he says, frowning. “I just don’t want to be in debt to anyone, okay?”

“Fuck’s sake, Merlin,” she says. Still staring at him, she blows a pink lock out of her face with a comical blast of air from her lower lip. “You’re bloody brilliant, all right?”

He’s about to protest about that, but she silences him with a warning finger to his lips. “Look we want you to stay in this band, and we’re a team,” she says. “One team, one dream, right?”

The warmth that steals through him at her words spreads out in a happy glow from his gut all the way to his mouth, making him beam. “Thanks,” he says, softly. “And sorry. For not talking to you about it, I mean.”

She shakes her head. “Just talk to us next time, Merlin,” she says, settling onto her stool and giving the bass drum a few experimental taps. “All right?”

“All right.” He smiles at her, and a frozen, scared, defensive part of him melts away. Shouldering the straps on the guitar, he plucks the strings, adjusting the tuning pegs till they’re just right. It’s not as responsive as his Kilgarrah—which, he reminds himself, is not even his, any more—but it’ll do. “Let’s go, then,” he says.

Will’s wrong, he thinks. Not all grads are complete gits. Some of them are pretty special, in fact. Talking of which… Just before they start playing, he looks up; he can just make out Arthur at the back of the practice room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a fond smile on his face. After a moment, he’s joined by a slender figure with long, shining dark hair and an air of ice-cold pride. The striking-looking pair leave the room, Arthur pausing in the doorway to send Merlin a farewell wave.

Morgana.

Merlin’s attention shifts back to the strings of his guitar, and he loses himself in the music for a few hours.

And when Elena opens up her batik, rainbow shoulder-bag, and pulls out a flask of hot chocolate, which she shares around with everybody, it makes his face pink and his limbs tingle with the returning warmth.

But he wonders where Arthur is, and what he and Morgana are saying to one another that’s taking so long.

 

 

**Two Weeks Later**

**Camelot College, Cambridge**

_I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on Earth - certainly greater than sex, although sex isn't too bad either._

_~Harold Pinter_

 

The intent way that Arthur glowers at the spreadsheet, as if he can unearth the answers he seeks by the power of his sheer frustration, makes him look almost hawk-like. Merlin’s as interested in the results as anyone, but equally fascinating is the tense line of Arthur’s jaw, the muscle that bunches as he grinds his teeth together.

“I just can’t work it out,” Arthur says, at last, pushing his seat away with a sigh and raking his hand through sweat-damp blond hair. “I have listed all the people who could possibly have known that that you and I are together, and there’s no one on it that I believe is capable of such a weaselly thing.”

It’s over two months since the whole Trading Standards debacle, and although Will and Gwen’s kebab van is soon, thankfully, to be restored to its rightful place on Market Square, they’re still no closer to working out who could have written that bloody letter.

“Let me look again,” says Merlin, although he’s already been through the list several times.

Arthur scrolls through each person, hovering over them with his mouse, while Merlin leans over his back to read the notes. There’s Will, of course, and Gwen. Both of them can be ruled out. They would never sabotage their own van. Gwen’s boyfriend, Lance, by extension, knew about Merlin and Arthur’s relationship, but neither Merlin or Arthur truly believes that there would be any reason for him to ruin Gwen’s business. Then there’s Uther’s driver, Elyan. He’s Gwen’s brother, though. Why would he do anything to hurt her? It makes no sense.

Of Arthur’s other mates, only Gwaine and Leon were aware, before Christmas, that he and Merlin were together. But Gwaine – well, he may be mischievous, irresponsible, reckless, borderline criminal at times, but he’s not vindictive. And Leon is like a brother to Arthur.

Uncle Gaius and Auntie Alice are on the list, but even if they disapprove of Merlin consorting with an undergraduate, they would never do anything that would hurt Hunith. And, obviously, neither would Hunith, herself.

They turn their attention to Morgana, Elena and the girls from _Rainbow Thrash_.

“Are you sure about Morgana?” says Merlin, softly, because Arthur’s encounter with Morgana had left him wild-eyed and silent—Merlin could almost see the guilt and suspicion whirling round Arthur’s head like black, joy-sucking insects—but unable to see who else could be involved.

“She seems like she is being totally honest,” says Arthur, bashing the desk with his fist so that Merlin winces. “She swears blind she never wrote that bloody letter.” He shakes his head, hunched as it is over his desk, and picks up a pen, tapping it nervously against the leather desktop. “I mean, she says that the whole reason why she wouldn’t speak to me, at Christmas, was that Uther had forced her to tell him that I was... interested... in someone, in you. She told him, ages ago. I mean, literally ages. Before Christmas. So my father knew, way back, towards the beginning of Michaelmas term.”

All this discussion, none of which is particularly new, leaves them in the room with a very large, unspoken, metaphorical elephant. They exchange a long, meaningful look. Finally, breaking this silent exchange with a sorrowful huff, Arthur uses his mouse to highlight the name “Uther Pendragon” and turns the text red.

“I can’t believe it,” he says, quietly. “It’s got to be him. We’ve ruled out everyone else. My own fucking father. But why? Why would he do that, Merlin?”

Shaking his head, Merlin feels his throat catch when Arthur levels his gaze at him. “I don’t know,” he says. “There’s got to be someone else, surely?”

But the thing is, for the life of him he can’t think who it might be.

“I would talk to him,” says Arthur, at last. “If I thought it would do any good, that is.”

“You don’t have to do that for me, Arthur,” says Merlin.

“And yet, how can I live with myself if I do not?” Arthur’s face is grave, he looks conflicted. Merlin can tell from Arthur’s expression that he dreads his father’s disapproval. “The trouble is, I don’t know if I can get through to him. You haven’t met him, Merlin. He is stubborn, used to getting his way.”

Merlin would normally make a flippant quip about the acorn not falling far from the tree, but something vulnerable around Arthur’s eyes stops him. “I trust you, Arthur,” he says, instead. “I am sure whatever you decide to do, it will be for the best.”

“I want to put this right, Merlin.” A frustrated muscle tenses in Arthur’s jaw.

Merlin puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, can see Arthur’s throat move as he swallows. “I know,” he says.

“But I am a coward. I am afraid of my father.”

“No.” That isn’t right at all. Merlin shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t say that! You’re not!” he says, hotly. “You’re not afraid of anybody, Arthur. I… I… I have seen you! That night at the kebab van, when you confronted the biggest bully of my generation, utterly fearlessly...”

“That was different.” A faint line has appeared on Arthur’s forehead.

“Maybe, but it took great courage. I don’t think you’re afraid of your father. I think that you’re afraid of what you might uncover, but that’s not the same thing at all. You’re not a coward, Arthur. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says, softly, turning away for a moment.

The gentle click when he shuts the laptop draws a line under the conversation. “We’re not getting anywhere with this.” He stands, shoulders tense, and pushes his hair back on his forehead, so that it rucks up into rough peaks, then faces to Merlin with an intent air about him in that makes Merlin’s mouth feel suddenly dry.

Merlin carefully moistens his chapped lower lip with his tongue. He watches how Arthur’s eyes dip to follow the movement, and return with a hungry glint to them.

Arthur bites his lip. “Merlin, I—”

Silencing Arthur by putting a stern finger to his lips, Merlin steps forward. “Hush,” he says. “That’s enough for now.”

“I agree,” says Arthur, pulling Merlin forward with strong, burly arms that flex around his back. A warm hand clasps Merlin’s buttock, and Arthur groans into his mouth. Feeling his heart start to race, in anticipation, Merlin gasps when Arthur presses up against him and starts to walk him backwards towards the bed. “That’s quite enough of that.”

“Hey!” Merlin squawks, indignantly, pushing ineffectually on the firm planes of Arthur’s inexorable, rapidly advancing chest. “Wait a minute! You big, bossy, prat!”

Merlin’s sufficiently off balance that Arthur’s shove finds him sprawling on his back onto the bed, legs and arms splayed. Despite his protests, Merlin loves being manhandled by Arthur, relishing the power and precision in those sturdy limbs. He feels his cock thicken, pressing against his jeans, his breath coming in short spurts, and, God, he can’t help it when a breathy whimper escapes him.

“Fuck, Merlin,” murmurs Arthur, shoving Merlin’s legs further apart roughly, and, kneeling between them. “Fuck. You look so—”

Frantic, fumbling hands tug at Merlin’s T-shirt, pulling it out of his jeans, rucking it right up. Arching his back obligingly to shuck it off, Merlin gasps when a pair of insistent fingers rub his left nipple, teasing it into a soft peak.

“Listen to you,” Arthur says, voice so gravelly and low that it raises goosebumps on Merlin’s exposed flesh.

Merlin feels a cool, wet sensation circling his nipple; the slither of Arthur’s tongue makes him gasp out loud. “Oh, God, Arthur,” he moans. “That’s… oh yes!”

“Mmmm,” says Arthur. “Want to lick you all over, you taste so good.”

“Fuck! Yeah!” Merlin groans, pulling Arthur’s head down onto his chest. “Just do it, Arthur. God.”

“Hasty. Impatient. You have to learn patience, Merlin!”

“You promised me your tongue! I want it, Arthur. Come on!”

The whirlwind of their urgent lust, punctuated by needy curses, raises a flurry of clothing, scattering jeans and sweat-stained tee-shirts across the room until they are both naked and panting into each other’s mouths.

“Such a fucking tease!” Merlin goads Arthur, who’s taking far too long, with a sound slap to his rump. “Fucking get on with it.”

“Wait a minute, this is bloody slippery, you needy sod.”

“Let me do it, then!”

“All right!” Scowling, his face flushed an angry pink, Arthur tosses the unwrapped condom onto Merlin’s bare chest. Clambering past Merlin and kneeling, face-down, he reaches behind himself with a lube-slick finger, pushing past his tight pink furl with a grunt. “God! Get your fingers in here, Merlin, you impatient bugger.”

The glorious swell of Arthur’s pale, rose-gold arse fills Merlin’s field of view with tiny burnt-umbre freckles and his heart with a desire so strong it fills the whole world. He can hardly breathe. Curving under his fingers, firm under the press of his thumb, Arthur’s buttock pebbles with goose-bumps in the cool breeze that comes in through the window.

“And you’re calling _me_ impatient?” grumbles Merlin. He turns, grabbing the remaining lube, and coats his shaky fingers liberally with it. Trembling, he slides one slippery index finger along Arthur’s downy cleft, swallowing the sudden ache in his throat. When Arthur reaches back to grab his hand, and, growling, guides his finger past the tense ring of muscle, Merlin’s heart jumps so hard it’s as if it’s trying to leap out of his chest. Because Arthur’s never asked this of him before, never wanted this of him, and he never would have said anything, but Christ! Arthur’s arse is just so perfect. Awestruck, he presses his fingers into that deep, welcoming warmth, gasping at the tightness and suction, at the way his hand makes Arthur’s buttocks clench and his hands scrabble across the covers.

All coherent thought leaves Merlin when, finally, he manages to slide the condom over his cock, and push it past the dark rim of Arthur’s opening.

“So fucking hot,” he gasps, voice jerking. He can feel a rush of pleasure building in his abdomen; at this rate, he’ll never last. Groaning, he slides back out a little, eyes drawn to the place where their bodies are joined. “Christ, Arthur, if you could see this…”

“Just move, Merlin!” says Arthur, the hoarseness of his voice muffled by the pillow.

God, it feels so good, and it’s such a privilege, having that luxuriant golden flesh spread out before him, the muscles bunching underneath, flexing in response to Merlin’s steadying hands. Gently, he withdraws again, almost to the tip, and then slams back forward, watching, fascinated at the way that Arthur’s buttocks clench and jiggle when he slaps at them, gently. God! He thrusts back in, harder, so that Arthur groans.

“You like that?” says Merlin, staring at Arthur’s skin, flushed pink where he swatted it. “You like it when I slap you?” He slides back out again, almost the full length of his cock, then snaps back in, hard enough to make his balls shake.

“Fuck, yeah!” is the muffled response; so Merlin slaps Arthur, again, a little harder, the sharp sound ringing out around the room.

Arthur’s palming his cock now, fist flying in time with Merlin’s pounding hips, making hoarse, bitten off cries that echo Merlin’s rhythm as he thrusts in and out.

From this angle, Merlin can see the way that Arthur’s hair darkens with sweat, curling and clumping into his nape. Arthur’s head is turned, his mouth slack, eyes closed. A warm, clean scent radiates from Arthur’s skin like an extension of him that enfolds Merlin, filling his mouth and lungs, so that Arthur is under, around and inside him.

Merlin’s not going to last much longer; the feeling of tight heat and suction is perfect, but what’s even better is the glory of Arthur’s honed body beneath his fingers, his urgent, deep-throated murmurs of encouragement. It’s all too much, and with a swelling feeling of deep, infinite sweetness surging in his loins he comes, panting, a surge of exquisite energy shooting through him just as Arthur clenches around him and stills.

A damp sheen glistens on Arthur’s skin; Merlin can’t help sniggering when their bodies part with a great sucking noise.

“Sh’ up,” says Arthur sleepily, rolling over and dragging Merlin down onto the sweat-soaked bedcovers. They lie there together in contented silence, cooling and drying off while their heart rates slow.

 

 

**Easter Term**

**Midsummer Common, Cambridge**

_In the Spring, a young rabbit's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mischief._

_~Bugs Bunny’s Bustin’ Out All Over, Chuck Jones_

 

Cambridge is gorgeous in the spring time. Arthur loves the sudden explosion of colour after the long, grey, dreary winter; it’s like the first long, tremulous breath after too long spent under water. All along the Backs of the colleges, new leaves drape the willow-trees in great cascades, as if dangling fingers into the cool, green waters of the Cam. Above them all rear the golden turrets of Kings College Chapel, proud and timeless. Blooms litter the grass, which is studded with delicate, lilac-and-gold crocuses. Stately, pale-yellow narcissi, deep-indigo bluebells and startling, crimson tulips look down on them, nodding as if in approval.

Along the river, the first, slightly optimistic tourists shiver in their chauffeur-driven punts, expertly steered by plummy-voiced guides. The sun is out, and the sound of willow thwacking leather can be heard on the cricket pitches and village greens all round the county. The tree-lined avenues along the Backs awake with a riot of pale blossoms that deposit soft petals like a lingering vestige of snow. Sap surges skywards, echoed by a sprightly upwelling in the hearts and loins of the town’s young men and women.

Oh yes, Cambridge in the spring – it’s like no other place on Earth.

Nevertheless, Arthur has mixed feelings about Easter Term. Of course, all the cricket is fantastic; there’s no denying that he and the rest of the team have got totally fed up with indoor training over the past few months. They’ve been drawn in a group they can win for Cuppers; Mercia shouldn’t provide much of a challenge. They polished off St Gilda’s college, today, bowling them out for a measly 63, with six overs to spare. And then there’s May Week to look forward to, which will bring the Cricket Club dinner, Pimm’s-fuelled punting parties, May Balls, champagne and shenanigans.

He and Leon walk back from the cricket ground towards the College—in track suits, and dire need of a shower. They’re crossing Midsummer Common in the sunshine, heading out towards Jesus Green, then past the kids’ playground on the banks of the glistening river, and he’s got his trusty cricket bat, Excalibur in his bag, with his mucky kit. He had a good innings today—54 runs, a cool half century—and he’s whistling Queen’s “We are the Champions”.

Leon, however, looks like he’s swallowed a cricket ball.

“So,” says Leon, forehead all wrinkly. “May Ball planning going OK?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, wondering what’s bothering the old fellow. An innocuous remark about the May Ball committee shouldn’t make him look so awkward. “Fine! It’s quite useful, actually, being on the committee. I’ve managed to get them to agree to hire Merlin and Elena’s band, for example, which is great…”

“Right, right.” Leon’s still looking constipated. “So…?”

Arthur looks enquiringly across at him. What can be up? Apart from his Part II Law exams, that is. Is it girl trouble? “Hmm?”

“About that. Merlin, I mean. You’re in a pretty good mood these days, Arthur.”

“Am I?” says Arthur. Not girl trouble, then.

“Yeah.” Leon looks down at his trainers. “Is it… erm… well. Just wondered. You know. You and that Merlin bloke seem close, that’s all.”

Arthur smiles. Leon doesn’t know the half of it. That morning, before Merlin went off to rehearsal, they’d shagged like bunnies on the floor of Arthur’s room. He still has the carpet burns on his knees to prove it. “So?” he says. There’s something brewing, he knows it. Leon’s one of his oldest friends; Arthur can tell when he’s psyching himself up.

“Well. It’s just… Myror, and Percy and I were talking,” says Leon, studiously avoiding looking Arthur in the eye. “y’ know, in the snug down at the Free Press the other night?” The snug is a tiny, cordoned off portion of the pub, perfect for conspiratorial chats about your teammate’s sex life.

“Yeah? Talking about what?” Arthur frowns, heart sinking, wondering if he’s going to get the whole “Town versus Gown” speech that his father always drones on about.

“Yeah.  And it’s, well. I know, I know. It’s none of my business. But. Well, we just wondered. You’re a decent captain Arthur, and… and an important friend. We’d hate you to… just wanted to know if…” If Leon pulls any more at the collar of his cricket shirt it’ll be distorted beyond all recognition.

“Wanted to know what?” says Arthur. He knows that Leon will come out with it eventually, but it doesn’t hurt to give him a prod.

“Just checking that, you know, when you went into… erm… bat.  As it were. With, erm, Merlin. You know, playing hide the cricket bat, and so forth. Just wanted to check that… you remembered to… to put a helmet on?”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. “You what?”

Leon’s face is the colour of an over-ripe strawberry. Arthur can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, and shoves Leon, hard, so that he staggers exaggeratedly into the path of an oncoming train of Italian English-language students. “You complete buffoon,” he says fondly. “Of all the half-arsed ways of checking your mate’s having safe sex, that completely takes the biscuit.”

“Well?” says Leon, with a faint, nervous smile. “Did you?”

“That, my friend,” says Arthur, warming to the metaphor, “was a bit of a no-ball. Rubbish delivery. Underarm, even. Do you know what? I think I’ll let that it through to the keeper.”

“What?”

“You heard. I’m not going to answer, Leon, you nosy bugger. It’s none of your fucking business.”

says Arthur, without heat.

Sniffing, Leon carries on walking in silence for a minute or two, but Arthur can see the sly smile peeping out from under his beard, and the side-long look.

“So,” says Leon.

Sighing, Arthur braces himself again for the Town versus Gown speech. “Hmm?”

“So,” Leon says again as they finish crossing Jesus Lane and plunge into All Saints Passage—and what an appropriate metaphor that is, thinks Arthur, with a grimace. “So. Erm. You and Merlin, then. Which one of you is – you know. The girl?”

Suddenly Arthur has a warm, affectionate feeling spreading through his belly, because, by God, Leon’s not having a go at him for having a relationship with a townie; he’s just curious, that’s all. It’s a bit irritating, but it brings with it Leon’s tacit acceptance that Arthur’s dating someone who’s nothing to do with the university - someone who’s got an aunt who’s a bed-maker – someone, in short, who is from a diametrically different side of the metaphorical tracks – well, it’s enough to make a fellow appreciate his good friends, however nosy they are.

Still, it’s an intrusive question.

“Neither of us is a girl, Leon,” Arthur says, his voice almost a growl.

“You know what I mean. Which one of you… bats. As it were. And which one bowls?”

His expression is so earnest, and his inability to articulate so pitiful, that Arthur begins to laugh.

“Personally,” he says, voice shaking with suppressed mirth, “I’m a bit of an all-rounder!”

“Oh!” Leon says, having the grace to look a bit shamefaced.

“You can watch, if you’re really that curious,” says Arthur, slyly. “You know. Be the Umpire.”

“What? No! Arthur!” Leon looks crimson-faced and mortified. “I’m not a voyeur! Fuck’s sake!”

“Your face, Leon,” says Arthur, doubling over in laughter, tears leaking out. “God!” Their shared laughter rings out over Trinity Street.

They’re still laughing as they part company at the College gates, and it’s a wonderful light moment. Because the trouble with Easter term is not the cricket or the laughter or the sunshine. It’s not the sex and the dodgy cocktails and the garden parties. No, it’s all that other pesky stuff.

University exams, to be specific.

And so it is that for the past few weeks, Arthur, determined to get a First for Part 1b of the Mathematics Tripos, has been closeting himself in either his room or in the college library pretty much constantly. What with that, and cricket practice, and Merlin’s band rehearsals, there hasn't been a lot of time for them to spend together. Arthur’s frustration levels have been building to a crescendo.

But right now he's exhausted. On autopilot, he taps out the keycode for his staircase, waves his entry card, and clumps up the spiral stairs to his rooms. His key rotates with a click. He hurls his bag onto the bed, and himself after it, with a weary sigh. He’s so tired; too tired even to drag himself to the shower. Before he can stop himself, his eyelids droop and he starts to drift off, his hand trailing over the edge of the bed.

He’s having a weird dream, in which his hand is dangling in an ice-cold bucket of Pimm’s, when he startles awake, eyes pinging open. His room is darkening, and he hasn’t even started on those differential geometry problems yet. Plus, as he’s gradually becoming more and more aware, there’s something cold and wet brushing at his hand.

Puzzled, he curls over and stares down at it in disbelief. For there, on top of his favourite pale blue rug, is a large black-and-white rabbit, sniffing inquisitively at his fingers.

“What the—?”

The rabbit turns away, lumbering across the rug to sniff at the chair of his leg. It has a sign attached to its neck, in black market pen on paper. As he watches, it looses string of black, shiny pellets from its rear.

“That’s my favourite rug, you buggering bunny!” Outraged, Arthur surges to his feet and chases it round the room. It’s curiously nimble, and it’s only when he corners the damn thing under his bed that he manages to pull it out.

“Gotcha!” It’s curiously satisfying, the sense of triumph that settles over him, a hunter bagging his prey. The silly little thing’s nose twitches indignantly while he fumbles for the sign on its collar.

“Rabbit Number 3” it says.

Oh no. Bloody Gwaine. If this is Number Three, where are Numbers One and Two? Worse, where are Four and Five? Just how many bloody rabbits are there in his room?

He needs help. Preferably from a soft-hearted idiot, and not from anyone who would relay his humiliation back to Gwaine. There’s really only one person to turn to at a time like this. Still clutching the struggling bunny, and cursing, loudly, Arthur rummages in his pocket and unearths his phone.

“Merlin?” he says, still breathless from the chase. “Merlin? Thank God! I need you! Come and help me! It’s an emergency.”

“What? What’s happened, Arthur? Are you all right?”

Arthur sighs. He can see another rabbit, now, under his sink. He wonders exactly how many of them there are. “Merlin, have you ever seen the original Star Trek episode ‘The Trouble With Tribbles’? Yeah? Well, it’s like that, but with rabbits. In my room.”

Arthur scowls at his phone when Merlin bursts out laughing, yelling, “Oh my God, Arthur! Don’t panic, I will save you! I’m on my way! I will bring carrots! Try not to let them savage you, now!” with none of the boyfriendly sympathy that Arthur so emphatically deserves. Fat lot of help he is. Ending the call he frowns at the small, furry mammal in his arms. It’s stopped fighting him now, and stares earnestly back at him. It really is rather sweet, adorned as it is with the usual complement of floppy ears, twitchy noses and fluffy tails.

“Now, look here, Flopsy,” he reprimands it, sternly, gentling its warm, downy neck. “There’s to be no more shitting on my carpet, you evil little mammal. And don’t look at me like that! Or I’ll have you for dinner with dumplings.”

By the time Merlin arrives, letting himself in through the door that Arthur’s left open for him, Arthur’s sitting, scowling, on his so-far unsoiled leather corner-sofa, with Flopsy under one arm, and the other rabbit, which he’s dubbed Satan, under the other. Satan is Number One Rabbit. Satan has been running round and round Arthur’s legs. Satan has very sharp teeth. Satan is headed for a saucepan if he’s not careful.

Merlin snorts at this vision. “Awww!” he says. “I don’t know which one of you to pet first.”

 

 

“I can only find two of them,” says Arthur, clenching his jaw, and sounding a bit hysterical even to himself. “It took me nearly half an hour to catch this one, and then the other one got away. I got him eventually, but I can’t find Number Two Rabbit and… where the hell have you been?”

Luckily for him, Merlin has managed to fight back his mirth and adopt a suitably sympathetic expression.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he says, biting his lip. “It must have been very stressful for you.”

“Yes,” says Arthur, as if explaining the bleeding obvious to an exceptionally dim child, “it was.”

When Merlin’s face twists and he folds his lips together, seemingly in an effort not to erupt in uncontrollable laughter, for one, unkind second, Arthur’s tempted to hurl one of the benighted animals at him. With admirable restraint, he confines himself to a steely glare.

“It’s not funny, _Mer_ lin,” he growls.

“No, no of course, it isn’t,” says Merlin, taking a deep breath, and trying, unsuccessfully, not to smile. As Arthur’s glower deepens, Merlin actually clamps his hand to his face, but can’t hide the way his shoulders are shaking, the bastard.

“Some kind of supportive boyfriend you are!” says Arthur. “One of them actually bit me till I started to bleed.”

Merlin snorts then, and tears form in his eyes as he doubles over. “Oh God, Arthur, I’m sorry,” he moans. “I can’t help it! God, oh God.”

It’s not Arthur’s fault if, in the face of this extreme provocation, and in his resulting haste to grab Merlin and manhandle him onto the bed for a proper tickle fight, which ends most satisfactorily with Merlin begging for mercy until Arthur’s dick is buried balls deep in Merlin’s infinitely welcoming arse, Arthur lets both the rabbits go.

It takes Merlin a most satisfactory two hours to round them up again with the help of a couple of carrots and a large cardboard box, and another two hours for Gwaine to drag himself out of bed to come and collect the blessed bunnies. And in all that time of searching, they never do find Rabbit Number Two.

There’s a very good reason for this. As Gwaine confesses, when he’s wiped away his tears, there never was a Rabbit Number Two.

“You complete and utter sod!” says Arthur, trying not to let an admiring grin creep onto his face, and ignoring the way this information sends his treacherous boyfriend off into peals of uncontrollable giggles. It’s a bloody good prank, he’s got to admit, but Gwaine’s toast, after this.

He goes out to the kitchen to fetch in the tea tray, together with three large mugs, a teapot and his sugar bowl. He’s just about to ladle the first of two spoonfuls of sugar into his cup, when Merlin stops his hand, frowning.

“I wouldn’t,” says Merlin.

“What?” says Arthur, perplexed at Merlin’s sudden caution. “You’re not going to tell me it makes me fat, are you? Because I. Am not. Fat.”

“No! No, you’re not! You're perfect! It’s just… I don’t know – it’s just a funny feeling.”

Ignoring the way that Merlin calling him "perfect" warms his frosty Pendragon heart, Arthur snorts, but doesn’t tip the sugar in. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Wait!” says Merlin, urgently. “It’s just… your new bed-maker, Hilda. Gaius thinks she’s up to something, and that sugar doesn’t look right.”

Frowning, Arthur takes a look at the sugar on the spoon, and has to admit that Merlin has a point.

The sugar looks kind of grey, and there are weird bits of pink cloth in amongst the granules. And is that red candle wax? Now he comes to think of it, it doesn’t look very appetising at all.

“Best to leave it, anyway,” says Gwaine with a leer, leaning to pat Arthur’s stomach. “You wouldn’t want that gut getting any bigger now, would you?”

“I am not!” says Arthur, hotly, “Fat!”

Really, he thinks, scowling at the two of them, who are now laughing uproariously, you can go off people. 

 

 

**A Sunny Sunday in Easter Term**

**Pendragon House, Grantchester, Cambridge**

_It is a wise father that knows his own son_

_~A Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare_

 

By the time that Arthur’s diary and Uther’s both have an opening for Sunday lunch, it’s perilously close to the exams. When Elyan picks him up, he shoves a couple of folders of notes on Markov chains into his briefcase before clambering into the old Bentley.

On the brief ride to Grantchester he doesn’t have a lot of time to brood, but by the time Elyan’s sweeping through the gates and along the gravel drive to the front of the Gothic masterpiece that is the ancestral seat of the Pendragons, Arthur’s loins are thoroughly girded.

But he waits, patiently, smiling politely at Geoffrey while he serves the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and doesn’t raise the subject until he and his father are dabbing their mouths and contemplating wondering whether it’s physically possible to squeeze any apple crumble into their bulging stomachs.

“Father,” he says as a starting point. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Indeed, Arthur?”

Gently, Arthur stokes the burning anger that he has been keeping alight behind his chest for so long.

“Yes, Father.” He sighs. He doesn’t want his father to be responsible for his boyfriend’s family’s misfortune. But if he is, by God, Uther will pay for it. “Someone has done something, something ugly and repellent and I wish to know who it is, and to make them… to make them put it right. That’s all, Father. I just want them to rectify problems they have caused.”

“That is an honourable aim, Arthur,” says Uther, putting his crumpled napkin onto his plate with a satisfied sigh. “What can I do to help?”

“Well, Father, I appreciate that. But there is the problem,” says Arthur. “Because I rather fear, I hope that this is not true, but at present, all the evidence is…”

“Come on Arthur. Don’t beat about the bush.”

“Currently, Father, all the evidence points to you. Being the one, I mean. The one who did the terrible thing.”

At that moment the sun chooses to go behind a cloud, and the room feels suddenly colder. It matches the glacial expression on Uther’s face.

But Arthur’s got the strong tide of righteousness surging behind him, pressing him along, and he does not falter again.

“Yes. You see, it has come to my attention that you have learned that I am seeing someone. A man. Someone who lives in the town. He and I have become… close.” When Uther’s mouth opens, as if to express surprise, Arthur silences him with a raised hand. “Let me speak! I know this is not news to you.”

Uther settles back in his chair, but Arthur stands, pacing about the room as he speaks.

“Arthur,” says Uther, nodding, a puzzled line appearing between his eyes. “It is no secret that I disapprove of you having a liaison with someone not of your class.”

“Will you let me speak?” Arthur wills himself to keep his voice quiet and steady. “My friend, his adopted brother, and his mother, not to mention your own chauffeur’s sister, are not wealthy. They all rely on their income from a kebab stall. They work hard. Recently, a letter was sent to the council that resulted in their sole source of income being forcefully removed. It was signed Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur strides over to the table, plants both hands on it with a bang so that the cutlery jumps up with a rattling protest. “I want to know if you had anything to do with that letter, Father.”

Uther does not flinch. “Arthur, whatever I have done is with your best interest at heart.” His tone, that of an impatient adult, explaining things repeatedly to a wayward child, maddens Arthur. “I will not pretend that I am happy that you have been consorting with someone from the town.  However, in this instance I did not—”

“Do not patronise me! It’s my life, Father,” yells Arthur, exasperated beyond all measure. “You have no right to tell me whom I can and cannot see. Or, or, or –  love. And regardless of whatever lack of respect you have for me, and the people I care about, regardless of anything, it is a dishonourable thing to do, to relieve them of their livelihood. I am sickened that the name I bear with such pride is being… being associated with this vile and heinous act. I will not tolerate it, Father. I will not!” He bangs his fist, hard, on the polished rosewood dining table to punctuate this speech.

Uther pinches his nose and looks away. “Arthur, let me finish! I—” he says.

But the banks of his rage, so carefully contained for so many years, are spilling over, now, and Arthur is powerless to stop the flood.

“You have made it clear that you do not care for my choices,” he yells, voice shaking, “but I am the one that has to live with them, Father, not you. And in any case, it is an act of… it is a… God, it is a despicable thing to do, to manoeuvre the situation so that a disabled woman and her young carer lose everyth—”

“Arthur! Will you just—”

“Everything!” he shouts. “Their home and their income. Despicable to… to take someone who is struggling, and make their life impossible! She has multiple sclerosis, Father, and he cares for her. Do you have any idea what that— ”

“Arthur! For God’s sake, boy, will you listen to me for a moment!”

“You never listen to me!” Arthur’s shaking, his breath coming in small bursts, and he squeezes the words out past his tight throat. “I am not a boy. How dare you! I am a man, and I will make a man’s choices! I will not marry someone you have chosen for me. I will not stand by and let you, or anyone else, destroy the man I love. I will not let my family name be dragged through the mud—”

“Arthur!” Uther bellows. “No-one is forcing you to do anything against your will. Now just sit down and listen. There’s something I have to say to you.”

His fury spent, the wind has left Arthur’s sails and he sinks onto a dining room chair, jaw clenching and unclenching furiously as he toys with the tablecloth.

“Listen,” says Uther, again, and his voice has an unfamiliar, gentle tone in it that Arthur does not recognise. “Arthur. I am sorry. I am sorry if you feel that I do not respect you, or your choices.”

Arthur looks up, surprised, searching Uther’s face for any trace of disapproval or despite. But all he can read there is pride, and a fatherly concern. 

“You are my son, Arthur,” Uther says, a warm hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know I am not the most demonstrative of men. It has been hard, for me, raising you, and Morgana, alone. I may not always have made it clear how – it is hard for me to say out loud, and that is a weakness. But, nevertheless, I am deeply proud of you. If I have ever led you to believe otherwise, I apologise with all my heart.”

Arthur’s heart is hammering, and to his shame, his eyes are beginning to blur. “What—?”

“You are my son, Arthur. My friend, Bailey, humbled me when he reminded me of all that I have, that others do not. I have a son. A fine boy – no, not a boy, you are quite right. You are a man, now, a man... who is strong, and honourable, and courageous. What more could I wish for? Arthur. Now. Please. Stop shouting, and calm down. Let me help you sort out this sorry mess.”

Arthur’s mouth is wide open.

After a moment’s wordless glance between them, Uther’s hand pats Arthur awkwardly on the shoulder. Arthur’s throat works hard for a moment or two, and if Uther’s does too, neither of them mention it.

“I never sent such a letter,” Uther says, finally. “You are quite right, Arthur, whoever did so is acting without honour, and must be stopped. In your name as well. Whatever their motivation, the action cannot be justified.”

“But if not you, then who?” says Arthur, raking his hair with frustrated fingers. It doesn’t make sense. All the evidence points to Uther, but Arthur knows his father. He would not lie about such a thing.

But who else could it be?

 

__

**Easter Term**

**Part 1b Maths Examinations, Mill Lane, Cambridge**

_Some days even my lucky rocketing underpants won’t help._

_~Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Watterson_

 

Well, the first exam went rather well. All that last-minute revision on the Gram-Schmidt orthogonalisation process really paid off, making him feel quietly confident. It is, for once, a spellbindingly glorious day, so rather than walk straight back along Kings Parade, he takes his time, threading his way along the Backs, dodging in and out of the colleges and over the picturesque medieval bridges. 

By the time he gets back to his normally well-ordered room he feels almost rested, so he’s totally unprepared, when he pushes open the door, for the utter chaos that greets him. Frowning, he sweeps his eyes across carelessly strewn old copies of Wisden to where his once neatly-folded clothes lie, in a heap, on his rug. Luckily his study materials and laptop haven’t been touched, but his cricket kit has been ransacked.

He frowns. Either he’s been targeted by a particularly discerning burglar, in which case he’s not sure precisely what they might have taken, or… To be honest, it’s got to be Gwaine.

Although, as a prank, it’s not up to Gwaine’s usual standard. All those history exams must be making his brain bleed or something. Groaning, Arthur gathers everything together and spends a good hour or two sorting it all back out again.

It’s only after everything seems pretty much back to normal that he finally realises that there is, indeed, something missing.

His clean underwear pile is gone. Including, he notes, his favourite, bright green, lucky Freddy Flintoff jockey shorts.

What the hell is Gwaine playing at? Those are Arthur’s lucky pants! He needs those for watching the England versus Sri Lanka match. The last time he wore the wrong pants, England were bowled out for 88 by Holland. It’s his duty to the national team to wear the right lucky pants for every match. It’s nothing short of Irish bloody sabotage! Feeling faintly panicky, Arthur fishes in his pocket for his phone, but Gwaine’s not answering. In the end he sends him a short text.

_Give me back my pants, Gwaine, you utter, utter pervert._

Then he pulls out his laptop. Before he starts revising for the next exam, he needs to finalise a few details for the upcoming May Ball. He shoots off a quick email to Mithian advising her that he’s managed to hire a kebab van, to take the place of the jerk chicken stall that cancelled at the last minute, and reads up on the final arrangements for the Champagne fountain. He’s deep within a list of the band line-ups when his phone beeps with a message from Gwaine.

_Watt pants? WTF?_

Frowning, Arthur types out a reply, not wanting to think about the implications of Gwaine not being responsible for the prank.

_My lucky Freddies, Gwaine, you depraved git. You nicked them._

A minute or so later, Arthur’s phone bleeps again.

_Nah mat it weren’t me u got the range block_

Arthur rolls his eyes. Gwaine’s legendary autocorrect is at it again. A second later, another message appears.

_I mean wrong bloke. U got the wrong bloke._

It was exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

So it wasn’t Gwaine. Gwaine would have been bad enough. But who else could it be? Who else would want to steal his pants, and why? Feeling a bit sick, Arthur racks his brains, but can’t for the life of him work it out.

 

 

 

**Suicide Sunday, Beginning of May Week**

**Camelot College May Ball**

_And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges_

_~Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare_

 

Merlin hates May Week. The town fills up with rowdy, pissed-up students. Their exams have finished but they have to wait for their results, and in the meantime the majority of them focus on causing permanent damage to their livers—and mayhem in the town. But it’s good for business, and with the kebab van now back where it belongs, distributing fried food to the masses, at least Will’s lost a bit of his usual surliness.

“Mum – can you pass me my plectrum? It’s in the case. Thanks!”

Thankfully, she’s mum’s been in remission for a while. Merlin’s even managed to get her a performer’s crew ticket for the Camelot College May Ball, which traditionally kicks off May Week proper with a bang, on Suicide Sunday. _Rainbow Thrash_ will be playing two sets this evening, and their first starts at 8pm.

“There you go, dear.” She fusses around him, tutting at the state of his hair. “Do you have to look so scruffy?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s the band’s look, mum!”

“Well, all I can say is that I’m glad you’re not my escort for the evening, with your hair looking like a bird’s nest. At least young William has combed his. Speak of the devil!”

Will’s standing there, looking a bit awkward because Merlin’s band mates are in a state of partial undress; Elena’s fiddling with some complicated safety-pin arrangement for Freya’s lurid green frock, while Nim’s busy “stressing” her purple hair.

Merlin’s just grateful that they’ve decided to let him be the black cloud alongside their “rainbow”.

“Erm… Hunith? I’ve got an hour off, would you like to…” Will’s voice trails off and he swallows, because Elena chooses that moment to strip down to her bra and pants.

Shuffling his feet, Will takes off his cowboy hat, placing it hastily in front of his crotch while he stares at the ceiling.

Merlin snorts into his diet coke. For all Will’s bluster he’s surprisingly prudish. Since Merlin told him about Elena’s nipple piercing, Will’s face has gone red every time Merlin mentions his _Rainbow Thrash_ friends.

They’ve agreed that Will should escort Hunith round when he’s not serving kebabs, because Merlin will be busy for much of the evening. Rumour has it that there will be record company scouts in the audience, so they’re even more on edge than usual.

“Play well, dear. I'm looking forward to hearing this mysterious band of yours,” she says. "William, here, will take me to the audience and then he can go off and serve kebabs."

Merlin feels the pressure ratcheting up a notch. As Will leads Hunith away, Merlin waves, then sinks gratefully onto a comfortable bean bag, pulling on his earphones to drown out his jumbled thoughts.

By the time it’s nearly time to go on stage, the adrenaline is making his heart race and his hands clammy with sweat. There’s a small backstage area where they’re sitting; Elena and Freya are chatting quietly and going over the set list, but Merlin’s strumming silently at his borrowed electric guitar, headphones on, trying to quell the swirling butterflies in his stomach.

They’ve played gigs, before, of course, but never in a venue like this – all intimate lighting, and romantic couples in silk and smoking jackets. There’s even the occasional toff in a top hat.

Merlin loves the excitement and hates the crippling self-doubt that makes his flesh crawl and his heart skip. His fingers skitter across the strings and he frowns.

All too soon, Nim’s tugging on his arm; he pulls off his headphones and nods at her questioning look. Yes, he’s ready, as ready as he’s ever been.

Grinning at each other, they move in for a final, group embrace, and then part, jumping up and down a few times to get the circulation moving. They’re running, bounding up the steps and onto the stage, grabbing instruments, microphones and sticks and waving at the sea of questioning faces. It’s such a powerful, heady, terrifying moment, meeting this audience for the first time.

But there’s no time for introspection now. Elena clicks her sticks together and they plunge into their first number, a deliberately frenetic choice. As Merlin hits the first, clashing chords of “Genital Riot,” he’s relieved to see heads nodding in the crowd.

This is it, then. Their first professional gig. Grinning proudly at an exuberantly clad woman in an orange satin ball-gown, who’s twirling so fast her skirts are flying up to reveal her legs, he finesses the discordant opening bars with a flourish.

It’s nothing like the sweaty scene at a college bop that he’s used to, but he thinks he could get to like the way the music has the power to move the crowd. They’re not all new faces, of course; Elyan’s out there, dancing with someone who looks suspiciously like Arthur’s sister, Morgana. And they’re not all youngsters either. At the back of the courtyard, a couple of middle-aged men are shimmying and grooving like crazy.

Ignoring the way that his heart is jumping, Merlin lets his soul flow into the music.

 

 

 

While Merlin’s playing his first set, Arthur stands in for him on the kebab stall.

To Arthur's surprise, Will didn’t put up much resistance when this solution was first suggested. Will had just shrugged. “You’ll probably be an improvement, to be honest, mate.” He said. “Merlin’s fucking useless at cooking.”

So Arthur’s standing there, on burger-flipping duty, while Gwen hands out kebabs and chips, with a side order of dimples, and Will sorts out all the accoutrements. It’s pretty easy work, really, what with them not having to take any money at all, it all being included in the hefty price tag of the May Ball ticket. So Arthur’s able to indulge with some banter with the customers, much to their amusement.

It’s towards the end of the shift. Merlin’s set should have finished by now, and he’s probably gone to change, out of his frayed, black jeans into his borrowed dinner suit. Arthur’s getting spectacularly skilful with the burger-tossing, and grins and whistles as he works. It’s like a well-oiled machine, he thinks, appreciatively, and he’s just about to put on another batch of fresh meat when he looks up. He groans inwardly as what appears to be the entire cricket team presses to the front of the dwindling queue.

“Oi, Pendragon,” says Myror with a grin. “Always knew you were a meat tosser!”

“Ah, yes, Myror,” says Arthur, sliding his meat-slice underneath another burger and flipping it neatly over, “I am highly skilled. As well as which, unlike you, I can also hit a ball with a cricket bat. Would you like any food? Or do you just want to stand there like a twat?”

Myror laughs. “I’ll have some chips, please, mate,” he says. 

Leon’s next in line. “Love the clobber, Arthur,” he says, nodding at the cowboy hats that he and Will are wearing, to go with Gwen’s cowgirl outfit. “Are you going to start wearing it on the cricket pitch? After all, you do have a reputation for unconventional cricketing attire…”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I know you’re jealous, Leon,” he says. “Why not just come out with it and say it? You’ve always wanted to dress as a cowgirl, but unfortunately, you’re just too fat to fit into Gwen’s lovely gingham dress. Now are you eating, or are you just being an annoying wanker?”

“Shish kebab, please. And some chips for Gwaine. He’s busy at the moment, but he’ll be hungry when he’s finished.” Leon nods towards a nearby bench, where the top of Gwaine’s head is only just visible above a spectacularly dressed, giggling girl’s substantial bosom. A pair of large, hairy hands is visible in the vicinity of the girl’s bottom, and as they look over one of them gets soundly slapped.

Cenred pushes Leon out of the way as soon as he’s got his kebab, and gives Arthur a spiteful glare. “God. I was feeling hungry, but now I think I feel a bit sick,” he says, looking Arthur up and down.

“Get on with it, Cenred,” Arthur growls. He can see his father standing behind the cricketers, in line for a kebab, with that Noah Bailey chap he met at Christmas, and he takes a moment to wonder what on earth Uther can be doing queuing up for junk food, of all things, before his heart sinks even further.

Great. Now Cenred’s going to humiliate him in front of his own father.

“Mind you, I’m surprised they let this tosser into an establishment like this,” Cenred’s saying, nodding towards Will. “I’d have thought they’d have preferred an honest tradesman to the sort of low-life scum who trick their customers on the market square of a Saturday evening…”

Arthur feels a growing knot of suspicion developing behind his chest. “What did you say?” he stops his burger-tossing, then, to stare at Cenred.

“Oh yeah,” carries on Cenred, oblivious to his impending doom. “Is that townie scumbag still trying to pass that gloop off as Heinz Ketchup? Surprised he’s not been locked up for false advertising...”

Arthur’s certain, then, as certain as it’s possible to be, and he wastes no further time.

“You!” he says, vaulting over the high kebab-van counter, landing cat-like on the lawn. Furious, he grabs Cenred by the collar and backs him up against the nearest tree. “It was you!” he says again, between clenched teeth. “You weaselly, cowardly, scheming shyster. You disloyal, dishonest, mealy-mouthed, vindictive little wanker. Do you realise what you have done? Do you realise?”

He’s screaming at Cenred, now.

“Thought you’d get into my father’s good books, did you, by screwing over my friend? Well, you failed, you pathetic, spiteful pile of shite. Thought it was funny to sign my name, did you? Well, that’s fraud, you shyster, impersonating someone on an official document, but that’s the least of your worries, because now you have to answer to me.”

His teeth are clenched together with the force of his emotions as he tugs Cenred’s hair back, making the snivelling coward squeak with pain.

“Fuck you, Cenred,” he says. “I don’t suppose you spared a single thought for the fact that people might be relying on their income from that kebab stall to pay the rent, feed the family, hmm? Didn’t care to think that you might cause suffering to someone who’s unable to care for themselves? Of course you didn’t. Because you’re a thoughtless, selfish prick, that’s why. Well, let my fist show you what I think of wankers like you...”

But a hand stops the arm he’s pulling back, ready to land a thump on Cenred’s scared-looking, snide little face, and a voice sounds in his ear. It’s Merlin.

“Wait, Arthur,” says Merlin, pulling at his shoulder.

Arthur pushes Cenred to the ground and puts his foot on Cenred’s chest, to stop him getting away. “What?” he snarls. He’s so angry he barely registers that Merlin is immaculately clad in a well-fitting dinner suit.

“He’s not worth it, Arthur,” Merlin’s saying. “He’s not worth getting a criminal record for, tempting though it might be. Besides which, we don’t want you damaging those delicate, cricketer’s hands, now, do we?”

Shocked, Arthur looks up at him. Merlin’s mouth is set in a grim line, and his eyes are dark and brooding. “Plus, if you are saying this wanker pretended to be you, grassed Will up to Trading Standards, made me sell my guitar and damn near made us homeless,” Merlin adds “then I think I’ve got dibs on that git.”

Arthur nods towards where Cenred lies, panting and coughing on the ground. “Be my guest.”

Merlin nods. There’s an evil glint in his eye that’s nothing to do with the pretty fairy lights that illuminate the college gardens. “Right. Well, I’ll take things from here, if you don’t mind holding the bastard down for me.”

“Gladly,” says Arthur, pinioning the squirming Cenred to the floor with a little help from and Leon. He wonders what Merlin is going to do. Dimly, he notices his own father, a grim-faced, striding in, to pin Cenred’s feet down, and a fierce rush of triumph surges through his veins.

Ha! _So much for marrying Morgana, Cenred, you dishonourable tit._

“Will? Gwen?” says Merlin.

Grinning, Gwen and Will toss him, one by one, no fewer than twenty squirty ketchup bottles, and ten of extra-hot chilli sauce, then come down the kebab van steps to take aim with bottles of their own.

Merlin hands round the bottles to the rest of the cricket team. “Right, lads?” he says.

They nod.

Within seconds, Cenred’s entire dinner-suit-clad body is dripping with ketchup. Will nods at Arthur, who removes Cenred’s shoes, and fills them with chilli sauce. When all the ammunition is discharged, Will steps over him, one foot each side of Cenred’s bright-crimson torso.

“Heinz, every drop of it,” he says. “About forty quid’s worth.” He smiles, a satisfied air about him. “Worth every bleedin’ penny, you tosser. Now fuck off.”

Wordless, one by one the cricket squad relinquishes its hold on their shamed team-mate, who shuffles off, red from head to toe, like some sort of kebab zombie, mopping his brow with a ketchup-stained sleeve.

Best of all, when Arthur looks up, he sees Merlin, propped against a tree, and smiling at him with shining eyes.

“Just when I thought my evening couldn’t get any better,” says Merlin. “My knight in a cowboy hat turns up to avenge the evil villain who’s besmirched our honour.”

Without pausing to think, Arthur takes off his cowboy hat and steps in to claim a kiss as his prize.

“You taste of ketchup,” Merlin murmurs into his mouth. “S’ quite nice actu—mff.”

For a moment, Arthur makes completely sure that Merlin’s mouth’s too busy for any more cheeky remarks.

They’re interrupted by a polite cough; Arthur is about to tell whoever it is to fuck off, when Merlin breaks the kiss. Seeing Merlin’s eyes widen, Arthur turns and damn near jumps out of his skin.

“Father!” says Arthur, nearly jumping out of his skin. “I forgot you were there.” Mortified, he reverses with some difficulty out of Merlin’s arms.

“Evidently you were occupied,” says Uther, drily. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your… your beau?”

Arthur looks round at the multi-coloured lights that litter the gardens. There’s a far-off sound of giggling, heavy bass-beats, and glasses smashing, but right here his father and his lover are regarding one another warily, and neither one of them is shouting yet. Standing behind his father, to one side, is Noah Bailey – who’s studiously looking into the distance as if pretending not to be interested in the conversation.

“Wait.” Uther’s holding up his hand and peering curiously at Merlin. “You’ve changed, but… aren’t you the young man who was entertaining us a few moments ago with that _Rainbow Hash_ band that Morgana likes so much?”

Merlin’s mouth falls open; Arthur can see his teeth glistening and flashing thanks to the twinkling fairy lights.

“Erm. Yes?” he stammers, eventually. “It’s _Rainbow Thrash_ , actually.”

“Jolly good,” says Uther, in an admiring tone of voice that nearly floors Arthur. “I must say it’s not my normal cup of tea, but it was very accomplished. My friend Noah, here, was most complimentary.”

Arthur can see Merlin’s whole body shake when he laughs.

“Thanks,” Merlin says. “I saw you both, I think. Dancing! Hope you enjoyed it!”

Uther, dancing to _Rainbow Thrash_? Arthur pinches the skin above his nose. This evening is growing more surreal by the second.

That’s when Noah Bailey steps forward to shake Arthur’s hand, in a perfunctory sort of greeting, before turning to Merlin and clapping him on the shoulder.

“Your band, man!” says Bailey. “Seriously, can you introduce me to the girls? Because I wanna talk to you all together. Arthur, here, has been singing your praises, and I can see why. The things you can do with that guitar. Gee! You’ll be perfect for our new record label.”

“Record label?” Merlin’s eyes are like saucers.

Bailey laughs. “Yeah. Lemme introduce myself. I'm Noah Bailey –the founder of Balinor records. Balinor… Bailey, Noah, Geddit?” Laughing, he slaps Merlin’s back so hard that it makes him stagger forward a couple of steps, coughing.

When Merlin straightens up, Arthur rolls his eyes, because right now, he thinks that he can see the stars forming in Merlin’s eyes.

“Really?” Merlin whispers. “You… you… you’re _that_ Noah Bailey? And you… but what…?”

“Want to sign you up, that’s what,” says Bailey, firmly, clasping Merlin’s hands in his and shaking them up and down vigorously. “Good God, man. You and those beautiful, fiery girls… you made my heart sing, that’s what you did. You’re going to be huge! I wanna do a deal with you. A recording contract. Oh yeah, you’re going to be great. I can do you a great deal; ten per cent of the royalties, five albums a year, an upfront fee of twenty-five k, the works, what do you say?”

“Huge?” says Merlin, faintly. “Deal? It sounds….”

He looks like he’s going to pass out. Surreptitiously, Arthur moves in to hold him up.

“That’s wonderful,” says a cool voice, behind him. Surprised, he turns to see Gwen standing there, still in her cowboy hat, holding out her hand.

Looking puzzled, Bailey shakes it. “And you are?”

“I’m Gwen,” she says. “Gwen Leodegrance.” She smiles at him, all innocent-looking dimples, but Arthur’s seen her in action, and isn’t fooled. A formidable woman lies beneath that sweet-faced facade. “I’m the band’s manager. So any deal will, of course, go through me, Mr Bailey.

“Oh, call me Noah, please, darling,” says Bailey, smiling.

Arthur winces. Bailey’s doomed.

“Noah it is,” says Gwen, looking demurely up at him through her lashes. “Now, let’s go over those terms again?” she adds, producing from somewhere in her bag, a pen and notepad. “Because they sound bloody rubbish to me.” Clicking the end of the pen with her thumb, she moves both it and the pen into her right hand, and takes Noah’s arm with her left.

“Rubbish?”

“Yeah. Crumby. Measly and mingy.” She smiles winningly at him as she steers him to one side.

Bailey gives Uther a pleading look over his shoulder, but Uther holds up his hands as if to say he doesn’t want anything to do with it.

“So,” Gwen carries on, licking her index finger, and turning the page of her notepad with a flourish. “You were saying? Merlin’s band want seventy-five per cent of the royalties.”

“Are you trying to bankrupt me? I can’t give you a penny more than fifteen—”

“Fifty.”

“You’re crazy. Seventeen and a half is my final offer.”

“Thirty-five. And that’s _my_ final offer.”

“Thirty-five? But even Other Direction only get twenty! Even… even Chee Zee only gets twenty three, and he’s totally badass!”

“Shame!” Gwen’s tapping her notebook with her pen. “Because I’ve had a very tempting offer from Sefa at Ealdor records. And there I was, liking you so much! But I have a duty to the band, and thirty per cent is thirty per cent”

“Ealdor records offered you thirty per cent?” Bailey’s expression is aghast.

Gwen nods.

Bailey sighs heavily. “All right then, thirty-five and you’ve got a deal.”

“That’s brilliant!” Gwen actually squeals and claps her hands, which makes Arthur fear for Bailey’s sanity when she says. “Thirty-five per cent, and a one million pound advance, for a three album deal, is just so perfect. You are a dear, Noah! I think we’re going to get along just fine!” She pats his cheek as if to emphasize her words.

“What? One _million_? But I said—”

"All right. Eight hundred K."

"Eight-whoa! No way. Five hundred, max." 

"Pounds? OK, brilliant. Five hundred K pounds is fine. Just let me tell the girls. They’ll be so thrilled!”

“Wait! I meant dollars! I never agreed—”

“Never liked Sefa, anyway, she was so stingy, only offering three hundred K!”

“But three albums is—”

“Bye Noah!” Gwen skips away, in a flourish of cowgirl skirts and thigh length leather boots, leaving Bailey standing, gaping, at her retreating rear.

Shrugging, Arthur and Merlin exchange a grin. The wily old goat seems to have met his match.

 

 

 

It’s traditional, at the May Ball, for a group of seamstresses to gather in the Junior Common Room to attend to any unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions. This is the direction that Merlin finds himself being steered in when, thirty minutes before _Rainbow Thrash_ ’s final performance, his dinner-suit trouser-button gives up the ghost, threatening to deposit his trousers in an undignified heap at his ankles. Of course, Merlin’s perfectly capable of fixing them himself, but it’ll be nice to see how the other half lives, for a change.

“Can’t have you wondering round like that,” growls Arthur, placing a warm, protective hand in the small of Merlin’s back. “Don’t want anyone else gawping at that pert little arse.”

Merlin snorts. Arthur’s possessiveness is rather sweet.

They step over a horizontal, amorous couple who are clearly a little overcome with the entire occasion, through the normally quiet cloisters, now lit in gaudy colours and echoing to the sound of raucous laughter with a backdrop of string quartet. A brightly lit fountain catches the wind and sends spray towards them with a loud hiss.

Merlin’s lived in Cambridge all his life. He knows all about what goes on in May Week, of course. He’d have to be blind and deaf not to. Many’s the time he’s sat in a borrowed punt on the Cam with Will to watch the fireworks at the end of Suicide Sunday. But he’s never been one of the milling crowds of well-dressed, champagne-tanked revellers before. He’s not sure whether he loves the hedonism or hates it.

He finds himself flinching slightly as they walk past a top-hatted Hooray Henry, who’s vomiting copiously into a large, previously fragrant bucket of petunias. When Merlin looks up, Arthur’s watching him with an understanding expression in his eyes.

“It’s a mirage. Most people don’t fit in, here,” he says quietly, as if reading Merlin’s mind. “They’re just relieved that no one has noticed they’re pretending.”

“What, even him?” says Merlin, nodding at the hapless drunk who’s fallen asleep with his head on the bucket.

Arthur sighs. “There are some people at this university who are nasty, arrogant, overbearing, privileged wankers,” he says. “I may at one time have been counted among them. I like to think that I have changed, in no small part thanks to you… and the rest of us are just doing the best we can.”

Merlin can’t help the way a small smile plays around his lips when the back of Arthur’s hand brushes his.

The seamstresses are largely drawn from Camelot College’s army of bed-makers; prominent among them is Hilda, who is attending to Elena’s bubble-gum-pink ball-dress.

“Hold still, my pumpkin,” scolds Hilda. “There, now. Let’s fix that stay. You’ll have the boys fawning over you in no time. Especially that gorgeous Mr Pend—Oh!” Hilda’s expression is a picture when she sees Arthur striding in; she scowls at Merlin, hard on his heels.

“Hilda!” says Elena, giggling. “Don’t be so silly. I’m betrothed to a Pendragon, yes, but the other one! Hello Arthur! Hi Merlin!”

“Don’t be silly, my pumpkin, obviously it’s Mr Pendragon who’ll sire Professor Pendragon’s heirs,” says Hilda, eyeing Merlin dubiously. “And stop giggling! I need to get my needle past this stay, and every time you laugh it plays havoc with your décolletage!”

Trying to avoid laughing, Merlin settles next to her, while Alice, with a frown at Hilda, bustles around him with a needle in her mouth and a thimble on her thumb.

“We’ll sort that out in a jiffy, Merlin, love,” says Alice in a fond voice. Her ankle is much better now; she barely even walks with a limp.

“Thanks, Auntie Alice,” says Merlin.

Elena looks at him, curious. “Merlin! Alice is your Auntie? That’s really sweet. Small world. Hilda, here, used to be my nanny, years ago.”

Merlin frowns. “Really?” something’s beginning to take shape in his head, and he’s not sure he likes it.

“Oh yes. Silly old thing, aren’t you, Hilda. Convinced I’m destined to marry Arthur. And she’s a Wiccan, so honestly, she’s tried to make me try all sorts of love potions, ha-ha, but I said to her, Hilda, I said. I’m in love with Morgana and that’s that.”

“It’s just a crush, my pumpkin,” says Hilda, looking uncomfortable as her attention shifts between Elena, Arthur and Merlin, and jabbing her needle, hard into Elena’s frock, with the force of some unidentified emotion.

“Ow!” says Elena. “You stabbed me!”

 “My petal!” says Hilda, her voice sounding gruff. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. Here, take a sip of my home brewed green tea; it will make you feel better.” Bending, she rummages in her sewing kit for a moment, retrieving a vacuum flask and pours some thin, weak tea into the lid. Merlin notices with horror that it has lumps in it, and suddenly he’s assailed by a revelation.

Elena sniff the tea, a suspicious expression on her face. “Are you sure, Hilda? It smells a bit weird.”

A growing suspicion whispers loudly into Merlin’s brain, about Freddy Flintoff underpants, candle wax, and Magick.

“No!” he blurts out, horrified. “No! Oh dear God, no! Whatever you do, Elena, don’t drink that green tea!”

Elena shrugs. “I wasn’t going to,” she says, putting the tea down, and pressing her chin to her chest in an effort to check that her cleavage is no longer asymmetric. “But why do you sound so worried?”

“Erm!” Merlin’s sure his cheeks are bright red, he’s so mortified. “Look. What colour were those pants you lost, Elena?”

“The Chrissie Hynde ones? They were pink. But what on earth—?”

“Wait! And Arthur, your Freddie Flintoff pants, what colour were they?”

“Green. But I fail to see what tha—?”

“Wait! Look. That green tea… it isn’t just tea. Don’t you see? It’s tea with… with…”

He looks up at Hilda who’s backing away from him, an alarmed expression on her face.

“Spit it out, Merlin!” says Arthur.

“Pants!” He raises a shaking finger and points it at the rapidly retreating Hilda. “Because she did it! Green tea with pants! My God, I wouldn’t drink that, Freddy Flintoff or no Freddy Flintoff. She was giving Elena green tea with Arthur’s pants mixed in…”

Hilda lets out a shriek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh yes you do! Arthur’s favourite pants, they went missing. And then, I remembered. You’re Arthur’s bed-maker aren’t you? You engineered it; Alice says you pushed her to get Arthur’s staircase.”

Alice’s mouth drops open. “How did you know—? Bloody Gaius! I’m going to kill him—”

“And then I remembered Elena telling me about her favourite, Chrissie Hynde pants going missing...”

Hilda looks a bit goggle-eyed and, to be quite frank, slightly deranged.

Merlin presses on. “They were pink. And Arthur’s sugar, it had bits of pink in it. My God! You’re insane! You should be certified!”

Hilda’s face is bright purple, and her hair in disarray from the way she’s been twisting it. “You’re all fighting destiny!” she yells. “Destiny will win out in the end. My Magick is too strong! You haven’t seen the last of me! My pumpkin will be Mrs Arthur Pendragon, you’ll see!” Turning, with what appears to be an attempt at a flounce, she strides out of the room, pausing only to return and retrieve her sewing kit.

“It’s all your fault, Merlin Emrys,” she hisses into Merlin’s face, then. “You gold-digging upstart!”

His heart’s pounding, but Arthur’s got a steadying hand on his elbow and he doesn’t flinch.

“You’d better go,” Merlin says quietly to Hilda. “I wouldn’t come back, if I were you, either. Stealing is stealing, pants or no pants.”

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” Arthur murmurs, when she’s gone.

Merlin sighs. “I think we’ve found the underwear thief, Arthur.” His mouth feels sour, as if he’s just sucked a lemon. “And I think I need a drink before I go on stage again.”

Having stated his need for alcohol, Merlin finds himself being steered in the direction of the Pimm’s stall, where a jolly-faced bloke wearing a boater is ladling what appears to be fruit cocktail into highball glasses. Grabbing one of these, Merlin stares at the pale ochre concoction curiously, and gives the straw a tentative suck.

“Tastes a bit like lemonade!” he says, finally, guzzling the remainder with enthusiasm. “Hey, this is pretty good!”

“Careful, now,” says Arthur. “Don’t want you getting all giddy and reckless on stage!”

“I don’t need alcohol for that,” says Merlin with a laugh. He can already feel his legs beginning to relax and his lips are getting numb. “That’s good stuff. Can I have another one?”

“Just shut up and eat the fruit,” growls Arthur, spearing one of the strawberries in his drink with a cocktail stick. “It’s the best bit, in my opinion.”

Shrugging, Merlin sucks on a bit of cucumber, which tastes oddly sweet, but not in a bad way or anything. “You posh bastards have weird tastes,” he says.

Arthur hums, busy with his straw. The sight of those dark red lips, glistening in the sparkling light, making a tight “O” around the straw, is mesmerising; Merlin watches, lost for a moment, and is almost bereft when Arthur breaks off to say: “Talking of posh bastards, here comes Leon. Hey, Leon! Have you and Merlin met?”

Merlin frowns. Arthur’s hail-fellow-well-met tone sounds a little forced. Almost… rehearsed?

“Only in passing at the kebab stall,” says Leon. He’s a tall, shaggy-haired, shaggy-bearded man dressed in a traditional dinner-suit with a black silk cummerbund. “And on stage, which was brilliant, by the way.”

Merlin’s always found bearded men a little bit intimidating. He can’t help colouring a little, and wondering exactly how much Arthur’s told Leon about him.

“Erm, nice to meet you too,” he says, inwardly cringing at his inability to say anything clever.

Leon’s face splits into a sly smile as he shakes Merlin’s hand. “So you’re the guy who’s been giving Pendragon stubble burn these last months! Great to meet you at last! I never thought I’d see the old sod this happy, Merlin. You must be a miracle worker. Love the band, too.”

“Thanks!” says Merlin, warming to him. He’s pretty disarming, and Merlin finds his initial wariness melt away under the charm onslaught. “The girls are great!”

“Yeah, they’re fantastic,” says Leon, “but for me, you’re the standout talent.” He pauses and darts shifty, conspiratorial looks over at Arthur, who keeps nudging him. “And for Arthur, too, no doubt.”

“That’s really kind of you,” says Merlin, wondering what’s going on when Arthur delivers a particularly pointed jab with his elbow, making Leon wince, visibly.

“Ow! Erm, yeah!” Says Leon. “Erm – and I couldn’t help noticing that… well, as it happens, I’ve got a really nice new guitar, and I’d be very honoured if… bloody hell Arthur, will you cut that out!”

“If what?” says Merlin, trying not to laugh.

“If you’d consider playing it for me on stage this evening.”

Merlin’s mouth drops open. “Wow!” he says, trying to think of a tactful way of turning him down. “Well, you know, I’ve rehearsed with this one, so it’ll be difficult to change now.”

“I think you should consider it,” says Arthur, firmly.

Merlin turns to him, puzzled. “What?”

“Well, have a look at Leon’s guitar, anyway,” Arthur adds. “If you don’t like it, you won’t have lost anything?”

“All right then,” says Merlin, wondering what sort of loony-juice the serving staff have been putting in that Pimm’s stuff.

“Good. Well, that’s settled then,” says Arthur, prising Merlin’s glass from his limp fingers and tugging at his hand. “Come along to Leon’s room!”

But when they reach the modest-looking staircase on New Court, and trudge up the oak steps to the cosy looking room where Leon stays, Merlin suddenly understands, and the revelation drives out all thought. Because, there, before him, in all its glory, sits Kilgarrah, the guitar with the dragon tattoo, and Merlin swears he can hear its strings sighing his name.

Turning to glare at Leon and Arthur, who are standing there, sniggering like schoolboys, Merlin feels his heart thudding in his rib cage.

“You!” he says, pointing to Leon. “You’re bloody bravebravesirleon!” He’s breathing hard, and not just from ascending the steep staircase.

Bowing, Leon smiles his acknowledgment.

“Which means…” Merlin looks daggers at Arthur, who seems to be trying, and failing, to keep his expression blank. “You sly, sneaky, underhand, manipulative!”

Arthur strides over to him, and although he’s a good inch shorter than Merlin, seems to tower over him.

“Well, Merlin,” he growls. “That’s Leon’s guitar and he wants you to play it. You can buy it back from him when you have the cash. It’s all above board.”

But Merlin’s not listening any more, not with his heart swelling and his ears singing. When Arthur thrusts Kilgarrah into his limp hands, he can’t help himself. His treacherous fingers spring into life, caressing the strings and frets.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but somehow he ends up hugging Arthur. The hard lines of the guitar dig into his ribs, breaking up the soft warmth of Arthur’s clothes.

“Bastard,” he whispers into Arthur’s neck, mouthing it with numb lips. “I fucking love you, you posh bastard.” Releasing his hold on the guitar with one hand, he fists Arthur’s jacket, holding on as if for dear life.

“I was right all along, Merlin,” says Arthur, his voice sounding suspiciously gruff. “You really are a sentimental, soft-hearted idiot, aren’t you? Now, tell me you’ll play that guitar.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” says Merlin, with a laugh that comes out more like a sob. His lips turn up even as his eyes blur. “You evil, arrogant, conniving… Christ, I don’t know whether to thump you or suck your brains out through your dick.” He sniffs.

A polite cough comes from somewhere just over Arthur’s shoulder, as if to remind them that they’re not alone.

“Ahem!” says Leon. “You might want to decide after you’ve played? Erm, it’s just that… it’s just… it’s half an hour to go until your next set, and I’d hate to get in trouble with your band mates! They look like quite a fierce bunch.”

 

 

 

When Merlin takes to the stage for his second set, for some reason the nerves strike worse than ever before, despite the relaxing effect of the Pimm’s. The surreal setting, the revelations about Cenred and Hilda, the contract from Balinor records, and most of all the return of his beloved guitar, all conspire and swirl together in his brain, vying for attention. Unaware that even more startling developments await him, he stands on stage, gazing out across his audience, almost paralysed by the way that his legs tremble and his throat thickens, unable even to gulp in air, taking in short, quick gasps that do nothing for his voice or his breath control.

But then he catches Arthur’s eye. Arthur mimes taking deep breaths. Merlin mimics him, and under Arthur’s steadying gaze, gradually returns to himself.

As soon as his fingers span the frets for the opening chord, though, he forgets the whirling, jumping crowd, forgets the contract, forgets bloody Cenred the arsehole and that psycho, Hilda, and just focuses on the joy of his reunion with that beloved guitar.

In the middle of the set he swops Kilgarrah out for his battered old acoustic guitar, to deliver a soft rendition of “Dissolve” while Arthur stands, shining-eyed at the front, never once breaking eye contact.

By the time they’re working up to the climax, a rousing rendition of “I wanna be the storm in your pants”, Merlin’s nerves are forgotten. The adrenaline surges through his veins; his fingers crackle and his bones thrill to the music. He’s playing the set of his life, and all the people he cares about are here. He can see his mother, smiling and nodding; Will’s dancing is borderline dangerous.

And Arthur… Arthur dances in the same way that he does everything. His entire body and being committed to the task, head thrown back, and eyes closed, he leaps and springs to the beat, mouthing the words that Merlin penned.

The wonderful connection that develops from playing for an enthusiastic crowd fills Merlin with a euphoric sense that he, the crowd in general, and Arthur in particular are all part of some great, mystic, cosmic whole.

The whole band respond to his energy, whipping up the crowd and dragging them along on the journey with them, mapping out the highs and lows of teenage love, and desire, and excitement all wrapped up into one neat, hour-long set. At the end, the crowd holler and yell ecstatically while the sky erupts in fireworks, and at that moment Merlin feels he could do anything, anything at all.

He’s totally unprepared for what happens next.

When Bailey appears backstage, Merlin’s having a well-deserved beer, having decided to steer resolutely clear of that Pimm’s concoction. But Bailey’s being strangely quiet as he strides over to Merlin to shake his hand, and his face is curiously serious.

“Son,” croaks Bailey, hoarse with some emotion Merlin can’t fathom, “that was an amazing set.”

“Erm, thanks?” says Merlin. With a sweep of his hand he indicates the rest of the band. “The girls were brilliant, don’t you think.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Bailey, vaguely, blinking for a moment, turning a dazed, distracted smile on the girls for a second. “Great.” He returns his focus to Merlin, smile slipping from his face, replaced by a hungry expression. “But you… with that guitar… do you mind?”

Eyebrows raised, as if asking permission, Bailey gently pulls the guitar strap over Merlin’s head with fingers that, to Merlin’s consternation, are trembling. “A custom-made fender, with a dragon decoration.” His voice sounds reverent, and Merlin remembers that the losing bidder for it had been called Balinor. “Do you mind if I ask where you got this?”

Merlin shrugs. “I’ve borrowed it. For the evening.”

Bailey looks almost crestfallen. “Oh.” But then his gaze brightens. “Whose is it, then? I’d like to meet them.”

“Sure,” says Merlin, frowning at Bailey’s odd behaviour. “It’s Leon’s. Arthur’s friend. It’s a funny story, really. Leon bought it from me, but I’m borrowing it till I can pay him back.” He lets out a hysterical little laugh, as well he might, still high on the reception the set got. “Were you the other bidder, then? How funny! They do say that truth is stranger than fiction!”

But Bailey’s hungry gaze has returned. “It was yours, then? Where did you get it from?”

“I don’t really see that’s any of your business!” says Merlin, beginning to get a bit riled by Bailey’s odd attitude. “As it happens, it was sitting round my house ever since I was a kid; my mum didn’t want me to have it at first, but—”

“Your mum,” whispers Bailey. “What’s her name?”

“What?”

“Please!” says Bailey, voice trembling. He’s still carrying Merlin’s guitar, which Merlin extracts from his lifeless fingers and places back in its case. Bailey’s eyes are dark and glistening, his gaze intent in the dim backstage lighting of the green room.

“Are you nearly ready yet, Merlin?” says Elena, her voice jolting him from this bizarre interrogation. “We’ve got to be out of this room, so the next act can use it, in five minutes!”

“Yeah, just got to change my clothes,” says Merlin. “Might need a bit of help with that stupid bow tie.”

There’s a flurry of activity, at the end of which, when they’re stepping back out into the cool darkness, he would have forgotten Bailey and his cryptic questions, if it wasn’t for the fact that the blasted man is still there. Merlin shivers in the intensity of his gaze.

And that’s when Bailey delivers his killer blow. “Is it Hunith?” he says. “Your mum? Is her name Hunith?”

Not sure why his heart is hammering so hard, Merlin stops in his tracks and turns to face Bailey. “Er, yeah,” he says. “How did you know?”

Bailey doesn’t answer straight away, and when he does it’s with another question. “And you, Merlin. How old did you say you are? Seventeen?”

“I didn’t say,” says Merlin, frowning. “Actually I’m nearly nineteen.”

Bailey grasps his arm so hard that he thinks he’ll raise bruises, and his eyes search Merlin’s face as if looking for clues.

“God,” he says, hoarsely. “I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what?” A creeping suspicion dawns on Merlin, swelling within his heart, but he tamps it down, forces himself to breathe evenly, because he’s done this before. While he was growing up, he saw his father in every man that he met. The crushing disappointment that inevitably followed is too painful a memory for him to consider starting down that path again.

“Merlin… I think… I… I think you’re… your my… I think I might be… your fa—” his speech falters and he gulps. Merlin can see his throat convulse as he swallows.

“Let me tell you a story,” says Bailey, sounding a little bit steadier. “It’s 1985, the summer of love,” he smiles at some distant memory. “Dancing to the Smiths and The Cure in the moonlight. There’s this wonderful girl; a gorgeous, feisty, stubborn brunette, who won’t tolerate any nonsense, but has the kindest eyes you ever saw. She plays the keyboards like a demon. It’s the 80s; I’m a guitar player, but the keyboard is everything.”

Merlin swallows and doesn’t dare to recognise the description. But it fits.

“So, yeah. Our band. _The Dragonlords_. They’re doing quite well, but my old man, my Dad, see he isn’t happy with me, going out with our keyboard player, a girl from the town. Drags me to America. Makes me leave my guitar behind. I feel like I’m leaving my heart behind. So I give it to her, my guitar, before I go; I give it to her, and ask her to look after it for me for a while, but I don’t tell her why, and like a coward I don’t tell her I’m going forever. So…”

Merlin can’t speak. He’s always known that his father abandoned his mother. The protective rage that makes him shake, and clench his fists, wars with his innate desire to know his father. The combination paralyses him.

“And then, I suppose, I was young and living thousands of miles from her. I should have written, I know I should, but I just didn’t see the point. So I didn’t.” He sighs, a wheezy sort of exhale that makes his throat sound tight and congested. “I was such an idiot. I’ve thought about her every day since. Never did find another girl like her.”

Bailey’s still speaking; Merlin supposes he should hear him out. He doesn’t know whether he wants to pummel him with his fists or hold him close. lt’s his father! His father!

His eyes bore into Merlin’s. “She was the most beautiful girl I ever met. I’ve never found anyone to live up to her. I’d love to see her.”

Merlin’s shaking like a leaf. “You…” he says, at last, choking out the word. “You’re my…?”

Bailey nods, grasping his shoulder again. “I’m so proud of you, my son,” he says.

They’re all the words Merlin has ever wanted to hear, but his mouth tastes sour, somehow. He moistens his lips, preparing to speak, but Bailey’s eyes widen at someone that’s coming up behind Merlin.

“Noah Bailey!” says Hunith, making Merlin jump. “You’ve got a bloody nerve turning up in this town after all these years!”

From time to time during a party or other social gathering, the cacophony of excited conversations, music and laughter stops for a strange second, as if the heavens have decreed that there should be a pause in the proceedings. One of those strange lulls occurs now, until the silence rings with a sound slap that makes Bailey clutch his cheek.

“How dare you,” Hunith adds, her voice low and harsh. “How dare you make contact with my son. You leave him alone.”

Turning to her, Merlin sees that she’s trembling from head to toe. Hastily, he steps in to hold her arm. She pats him absently and draws a breath. Will’s with her; he and Merlin exchange a silent look, and Will takes her other arm.

“Hunith, I… let me expl—ow!” Bailey’s speech is cut off by another resounding slap, to the other cheek.

“Do you have any idea what I went through? There you were, full of sweet promises one minute, gone the next! Without so much as a letter…”

“I didn’t have any ch—”

“Shut up! You lost any rights to my son.”

“Our son!”

“My son!” she hisses. “You lost the right when you left me alone and pregnant all those years ago.”

“I didn’t want to go—I didn’t know you were—Ow!”

So, it was true, then. This… this… Bailey was his father. Merlin can hardly hear the rest of the argument. While his mother rants, and Bailey, protesting, wrings his hands, Merlin feels his knees weaken. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

A strong, warm presence on the other side of him buoys him up.

Arthur.

Gratefully, he finds himself leaning into Arthur’s silent touch - which is when he realises that a moment he's been both dreading and anticipating, in equal measure, has now finally arrived. Hysteria bubbles up in his throat. Distantly he hears himself speak.

“Mum?”

Hunith falls silent. “Yes, dear?”

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He turns to Arthur, solid and dignified alongside him. “This is my boyfriend, Arthur Pendragon. Arthur?” The hysterical laughter wells back up again. Poor Arthur! What a way to meet your boyfriend’s parents! “Let me introduce you to my Mum and my fucking Dad!”

His eyes blur then even as he dissolves into giggles.

“Language, Merlin!” says Hunith, which only makes Merlin laugh harder, so that tears start in his eyes.

Arthur looks on, confused.

But the funniest and most tragic thing of all is the expression on Bailey’s face, just before he ducks to avoid Will’s clumsy punch. It takes both Merlin and Arthur to drag Will back and stop him from following up with a vicious kick to Bailey’s crotch.

“Whoa! Will!” says Merlin, struggling to hold Will’s not insubstantial torso. “Cut it out, ok? This is between my mum and my…” it seems strange to say the word; he’s avoided it for so long. “I mean her…”

“I’m so sorry Hunith,” Bailey’s saying. “Look, I know I've behaved unforgivably, but could we… perhaps you’d just let me… could we just talk? I mean, privately?” he shoots Merlin a pleading look, but Merlin’s got his hands full and doesn’t feel like being charitable.

Hunith, though, nods. “Talking can’t hurt, I suppose,” she says, her lips narrow and prim. “William, you are an absolute darling. Please can you curb your protective instincts for a moment, dear, and find me some of those dark-chocolate coated strawberries? They’re my favourite. Remember, no dairy.”

“But, Mum!” Hunith’s not really Will’s mother, but he’s called her that for years. “I don’t want—”

“Just do it, William, dear.”

Cautiously, Merlin and Arthur relinquish their hold on Will, who glares at Bailey, then, smoothing his rumpled cowboy outfit, goes off in search of fruit. From the way he’s muttering under his breath as he goes, and darting murderous glances at Bailey all the while, Merlin wouldn’t like to be in Bailey’s shoes if Will catches him on his own any time soon.

Meanwhile, Hunith reaches up to pat Arthur on the cheek, and smiles.

“Well, Merlin, dear. I did know you were dating someone from the university, and I know I didn’t approve, but you didn’t tell me he was so very handsome!” She scans Arthur thoroughly, up and down, lips pursed together.

 

"Mum, I think you should give Arthur a chance." Realising that he's speaking very fast, Merlin tries to slow himself down a little. "I mean, Arthur has helped me so much, and Will, too! And you've always told me to judge people on their actions, not where they come from or what they look like. I'm just asking for a—"

But Arthur appears to be in control of the situation.  “Mrs Emrys,” purrs Arthur, holding out a hand for Hunith to shake. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you at last. Merlin has told me so much about you.”

“I wish I could say the same, dear,” she replies with a disapproving frown at Merlin. She sighs. "Well, I can't say I'm happy about him seeing someone from the university. In my experience, all that ambition and entitlement leads to a certain carelessness and arrogance." This with a glare at Bailey. "But you seem to make Merlin happy. Just—just you be careful with my son's heart." 

The way she delivers this admonishment sounds like a threat, but Merlin lets out the breath he has been holding as Arthur stutters out his assurances. 

Meanwhile, Bailey’s staring at her, looking a bit dazed. “Hunith,” he croaks. “You look even more beautiful than ever.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, no!” she says, turning to him, but her voice has lost its sharp edge and sounds almost coquettish when she adds. “I’m not falling for that nonsense, again!”

"Just let me speak, Hunith. Just let me explain." 

"Well—" her voice falters for a moment and she looks Bailey up and down.

With a sudden shock, Merlin realises that she's flirting, and it feels like the ground being whipped away from under his feet. "Mum," he says, alarmed. "You're not going to listen to—"

She's always been able to silence him with a gesture; when she holds out a warning hand, it brings him up short.

“Merlin, dear?” she says without turning her head. “Would you please go and fetch me a Pimm’s? I’m quite parched.”

“But, Mum, I don’t think you should—I mean, he just walked in here, and you’re just going to—”

“Merlin!” The sharp note in her voice has returned. "You're the one who was lecturing me on giving people a chance, just a moment ago!"

He sighs. “Yes, mum,” he says.

By the time he and Arthur come back, bearing a jug of Pimm’s and two glasses, Hunith’s reclining on a chaise longue in the quiet, serene area of Garden Court where they left her, swathed in faux fur, with a blissful expression on her face. Her uncomfortable high-heeled shoes have been cast to one side, forgotten, while Bailey applies massage oil to her feet with an adoring expression on his face. On the other side of the court a string quartet is playing _Spring_ from Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_ , and the mellow tones of the strings mingle with the splashing of the mini fountain in the centre of the court.

She raises one eye at their approach. “Thank you dears,” she says. “Just pop those on the table for me, would you?”

He does as she asks, which is just as well, because he would have dropped the glasses otherwise, when Bailey says “Tell her, Merlin! She’s just as stubborn as I remember, and twice as beautiful, but really it’s a slam-dunk!”

“Er – tell her what?”

“She should come with me to Los Angeles!” says Bailey, pouring what oil into his hand, and smoothing it carefully into the arch of Hunith’s foot. “I know a fabulous MS clinic there, so much better than the NHS. And think of all the sunshine!”

“What? But, Mr B—I mean Bali—I mean Da—I mean No…” Wanting to protest, but tongue-tied, because he can’t work out what to call Bailey now, Merlin’s still stuttering when his mother speaks.

“Don’t be silly, Noah, dear,” says Hunith, settling serenely back into the faux fur. “I’m doing perfectly well, here. I can’t possibly leave my boys. And I thought you were sick of LA, anyway?”  Lowering her head, she sighs contentedly. “That’s right, Noah, dear,” she says, her eyes closing. “That’s just lovely.”

“Whoa, now, Hunith,” Bailey’s saying, with a tender, protective look in his eyes, as he presses his thumb into the pad of her foot. “I don’t think the boys need you so much. What about coming to LA with me for a holiday, and we can take it from there?”

“Don't talk nonsense. You always were a smooth talker.” She yawns, lifting her hands to pat at her hair. “But I’ve got a lovely neurologist here, and treatment in the US is terribly pricey.”

“Just a holiday won’t hurt,” he says. “And I’ve got a chef who does great vegan food.”

“Vegan food is all very well, but I have to avoid soya, and I need fish, too, Bailey, dear. It really would be much better if I stayed. I’m managing my condition perfectly well…”

Merlin and Arthur exchange a glance. “I reckon this discussion could go on for a while,” says Merlin, quietly.

Arthur grins at him, eyes dancing with a mischief that makes Merlin’s pulse quicken. “That’s good,” he says, his voice a soft but dangerous-sounding purr. Merlin feels a strong hand grip his arm. “Because there’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on. It’s time.”

 

 

 

A sliver of silver adorns the sky to the east, heralding the approaching dawn, but the ball’s guests, determined to get their full money’s worth, are still in full party mode.

Arthur, however, has had quite enough. Steering Merlin away by the elbow, he manhandles him into a doorway in a hidden nook of Garden Court and snogs him senseless.

“Hey!” says Merlin, breathless, “What’s the matter—?”

“Too much talking, Merlin,” says Arthur, crushing Merlin up against the wall, and finally, finally, getting his mouth on those tantalising lips for another scorching kiss. Kicking Merlin’s legs apart, he slides his thigh in between them, rubbing firmly at Merlin’s growing length with a groan. Swiftly he tugs Merlin’s shirt from the waistband, slipping his hands beneath it to grasp Merlin’s rump, hot, firm and _right there_.

Merlin’s panting, slumped up against the wall, when they break apart. That’s more like it. That’s where Merlin should be: dishevelled and coated liberally with Arthur’s hand and lip prints. And, in the near future, dick prints. Definitely those as well.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, gasping and ruddy-chinned, his bow tie awry, and his hair stacked on his head in a messy, inky pile. Arthur approves of the look. “Arthur! God! What’s the great hurry? I mean—not that I’m complaining, mind, because, fuck… but—”

“Had to share you too much this evening,” growls Arthur, crowding in closer, and canting his hips so that Merlin can’t possibly misunderstand how much he’s got to have him, _right now_. “And now it’s my turn.”

So far this evening there’s been an adoring audience, a long lost father, a guitar, and a perverted bed-maker, not to mention an entire cricket team, preventing him from ravishing Merlin to within an inch of his life. Well it’s too bloody much; Arthur’s not going to waste this opportunity.

“You look too delicious in that dinner suit, and it’s time for me to mess it up.” The newly-mended trousers fit Merlin’s pert arse snugly, and heaven only knows how restrained Arthur has been by not pinching those taut little buttocks at the first available opportunity.

“But I thought you wanted to show me something?” Merlin’s voice is a little breathless; not enough, though.

“I am. And then I’m going to suck you off” This statement drags a small, helpless and extremely gratifying whimper from Merlin.

The time has come for Arthur to follow up on the arrangements he’s made with Percy for the remainder of the evening.

Reluctantly, Arthur pulls away, trying not to get too distracted by Merlin’s flushed features, and the way Merlin’s cock bulges and strains at the front of his trousers. Hiding his satisfaction with a brief smirk, Arthur tugs Merlin’s hand.

“Come with me,” he says. “I’ve got plans for you.”

“But, my mother? And Bailey—?”

“Can wait,” says Arthur, firmly. “It’s nearly 4am and I haven’t even given you a blow job yet.”

With firm, certain steps he stalks across the court, dragging the weakly protesting Merlin along in his wake, down a narrow, steep close to the river, where Percy waits in his custom-made dinner suit.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” says Percy, smiling and handing out a punt pole, a glowing lantern, and a picnic basket, which last item Arthur passes to the bemused-looking Merlin. The basket emits a friendly ‘clink’; Arthur nods his approval.

Merlin starts to speak. “Arthur, what are we—?”

“We were held up,” interrupts Arthur, tersely, boarding the waiting punt and beckoning. Merlin steps gingerly into it, and Arthur pushes off with the pole, while Merlin settles himself on the stripy green-and-white cushions.

“But where are we—?”

“It’s a secret. Shhh!”

Rather than joining the marauding throngs of pissed-up Hooray Henrys who line the Cam near the college, braying and shunting each other’s punts, Arthur turns the punt quietly in the other direction, towards Silver Street Bridge, narrowly avoiding being dive-bombed by a drunken spectator en route.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re able to punt,” says Merlin, fishing around in the basket and withdrawing a champagne bottle, and two flute glasses.

“There’s a knack to punting; it’s not that difficult,” says Arthur. “Tourists always make a hash of it though.” Arthur’s fairly proficient, he knows to drop the punt pole vertically down, as close to the back of the boat as possible, and to push off straight, using the pole as a rudder to steer at the end of the stroke.

Done properly, punting is a quiet and peaceful means of propulsion, punctuated only by the friendly plop of the pole as it enters the gently flowing water, and the subsequent gravelly scrunch when the metal pole-end drops into the sediment. The boat surges gently forward with every stroke of the pole. Arthur can hear the faint rippling sound made by Merlin’s hand, as it trails in the cool water, and the sounds of merrymaking gradually recede.

“Thanks for taking me out of there,” says Merlin after a while. “It was getting a bit crazy. I mean, what next? I’ve got a record contract, and my father… and… and… I don’t know if I want either of them, to be honest. But, then, it’s not just about me, is it? I mean, there’s the band. And then there’s the guitar, with that contract I can pay… and you and I, we’d be equal. I mean, no-one could accuse me of being a gold-digger then, could they?”

They’re drawing away from the light, now, and Arthur can only just make out the way that Merlin’s eyes glisten in the warm light from the lantern when he turns his head. Not knowing what to say to this, he wisely decides to remain silent.

“As for my Mum…” Merlin’s voice tails off. It’s really dark now.

“She’s a grown woman, Merlin,” Arthur says. “She knows her own mind.”

Merlin’s quiet sigh is only just audible. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I know.”

They drift for a while longer, Arthur content to occupy himself quietly in propelling the punt without mishap, threading his way through the dark, lichen-stained arches of the silent bridges. It’s quiet, now away from the braying crowds, although once or twice he thinks he can just about hear the stealthy sound of another punt pole dropping into the water in their wake.

Sighing heavily, Merlin takes a swig of his champagne. “Thanks,” he says, after a while. “Thanks for it all, Arthur, you’ve been a great friend to me. A… and you… I… I mean… the guitar… I just don’t know how I can ever repay...”

“It’s fine, Merlin,” says Arthur. “It’s my pleasure, really. Maybe thank me one day by writing a song. Maybe one where I’m not a cold hearted liar, this time.”

Merlin snorts into the quiet night, and then, to Arthur’s surprise, fishes a notebook and pencil stub out of his dinner-jacket pocket.

“Are you writing lyrics now?” Arthur says, disconcerted.

“Yeah, I always carry a notebook. You never know when inspiration will strike!”

After a few minutes of feverish scribbling, accompanied by mumbles and the occasional snigger, Merlin clears his throat and starts to declaim, theatrically.

_“Arthur Pendragon. A sonnet. By Merlin Emrys, esquire._

_“My love is strong, his arse so plump and comely--”_

“Merlin! I do hope this is going to be art, not pornography.”

“Shhh! Let me finish the bloody poem, you prat!”

Smiling, Arthur ducks beneath the draping bough of a willow tree and resumes punting.

Merlin starts reading out his poem by the light of the lantern again.

_“My love is strong, his arse so plump and comely_

_His heart a TARDIS, big and warm inside_

_Perfect, pouty lips like Joanna Lumley--”_

“What?” says Arthur, mock-outraged. “You can’t compare me to Joanna Lumley, Merlin, she’s a woman, for a start, and she’s about seventy—?”

“Oh, be quiet you great big banana! Joanna’s gorgeous!” When Merlin coughs Arthur can almost hear his eyes rolling.

Arthur grins. “Go on then, I’ll shut up.”

_“My love is strong, his arse so plump and comely--”_

“My arse is not fat, Merlin. But we’ve heard this before – what about the rest of it?”

“Bloody hell, if I didn’t keep getting interrupted by a posh, irritating, arrogant, supercilious…”

“That doesn’t rhyme, Merlin.”

“What? Oh you twat. Where was I?”

“Waxing lyrical about my arse.”

“Look, I’m going to have to start all over again. Just try to keep your privileged trap shut, for a nanosecond, okay?”

“All right, Merlin, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Merlin coughs again.

“Okay. Ermm, here we go:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _“My love is strong, his arse so plump and comely_
> 
> _His heart a TARDIS, big and warm inside_
> 
> _Perfect, pouty lips like Joanna Lumley--_ don’t-say-anything-Arthur-you-prat
> 
> _Enormous, perky prick I like to ride_
> 
> _O Arthur, brave, like Matt Smith as the Doc_
> 
> _Has eyes that sparkle like a shiny thing_
> 
> _I’d like to suck his massive, manly cock_
> 
> _Until his eyes cross, and he starts to sing_
> 
> _And then I’ll let him put it up my bum_
> 
> _Tight and snug, the perfect sort of fit_
> 
> _He’ll pump me hard, I’ll thrash, he’ll scream, and come_
> 
> _Shouting “Fuck, yeah, Merlin, holy SHIT!”_
> 
> _He’ll suck my cock-tip, velvet, warm and blunt_
> 
> _And make me come so hard I tip this punt…”_

 

Arthur’s already crying with laughter before Merlin starts to deliver the final line. “Bloody hell, Merlin! That’s absolutely obscene! Fuck!”

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“God, no! It’s brilliant. And all in bloody iambic whatsisname too.” Arthur’s never had a sonnet written about him before. He’s got an unaccountably warm feeling building behind his rib cage, he’s not quite sure what it’s called, but whatever it is, it’s one hundred per cent Merlin.

Aha! They’re nearly at their destination; Arthur steers towards the spot where the graceful boughs of a huge, mature weeping willow tree drape over the riverbank, forming a dark canopy, gloomy in the moonlight.

“Watch your back, Merlin!” says Arthur. “And duck!”

Merlin turns and ducks below the gunwale just in time to avoid being clouted by a heavy branch. Arthur leaps down into the punt, grabbing the wet punt-pole as he hunkers down. The leaves susurrate, parting to let the punt glide between them and come to a halt with a jerk as it hits the bank. The lantern casts a friendly glow across the canopy of branches and leaves above them.

Arthur secures the punt to a mooring and then clambers across to Merlin, ignoring the alarming way this makes the punt sway.

“All right?” he says quietly to Merlin, once he’s managed to sit down and the vessel’s movement has calmed.

In answer, Merlin’s arm snakes round Arthur’s neck, hauling him closer so that their lips meet in a suddenly urgent kiss.

“Make me forget about it all,” says Merlin, panting, when they part for a second. “Until the morning.”

“With pleasure.” Obligingly, Arthur covers Merlin’s bony, beloved body with his own and bends in to claim his mouth.

“I declare this mouth to be Pendragon territory,” Arthur says, when they part for air, his heart pounding, and his ears ringing. “Henceforth, no other mouth shall be allowed to trespass upon it.” He dives back in to reinforce his claim.

“God, Arthur,” says Merlin, panting hard after a few minutes in which his appearance transforms from almost-respectable to totally ravaged. “You’re a bloody force of nature. You’re like a bloody hurricane you are.”

Arthur smirks, although he knows Merlin can’t see it.

“Yeah? Well, you, Emrys, are a bloody genius. And while I’m prepared to share your talent and your…” his hand caresses Merlin’s hair, and he swallows. “Your… scrawny, ugly face…”

God. Merlin has the most extraordinary cheekbones. He nuzzles at them for a while, eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Your ridiculous ears. I admit I have to share those. But at close quarters they are mine.” Arthur whispers into Merlin’s ear. Letting hot breath gust along its curve, he laps and nips at that scrawny, stubbly, neck. Its salty, sweaty tang is sweeter than Pimm’s and strawberries, and ten times as intoxicating. “This neck, too.” He sucks at the point where Merlin’s chin and neck meet, marking him there. “This is mine.”

“Fuck, Arthur. Let me… fuck.”

“Shhh.”

When Arthur’s reaches the barrier formed by Merlin’s dress-shirt collar, he scowls. “This, Merlin, this collar, it offends me.”

Merlin’s writhing under him now, those bony, elegant fingers clawing at Arthur’s dinner jacket.

 “Christ, Arthur, let me get at your fucking skin!” Hips canting upwards as if to emphasise his need, Merlin’s bucking and wriggling so much that it’s making the boat rock.

“Shhhh and stop struggling or you’ll have us both in the water.” Arthur loosens that offending bow tie, and undoes the shirt buttons, one by one, nuzzling at the skin that emerges, little by little, until he can touch his lips to the tantalising hollow of Merlin’s collar bone. Sweat has pooled there; Arthur licks at it, then parts the shirt further to reveal the expanse of Merlin’s chest, flecked with dark swirls of hair.

Merlin lets out a breathless moan.

“Hold still, Merlin.”

Miraculously, Merlin does as he’s asked for once. Arthur can see his chest rise and fall in time with his quickened breathing.

Tongue darting out, Arthur traces the circumference of Merlin’s nipple and watches, fascinated, while the cool early-morning air raises pebbly goose-bumps in the wake of his mouth.

“Fuck,” says Merlin, casting his head back until it thuds onto the thin cushion. “Yeah, that. Do that. Fuck, Arthur.”

When Arthur nudges at Merlin’s navel, he can feel Merlin’s long, strong fingers massaging his scalp. He fumbles to release Merlin’s cummerbund and slides one hand down the front of his trousers, balancing the other on Merlin’s chest. The bitten-off whimper that this draws from Merlin’s mouth is better than music.

“I’m going to suck you off, Merlin,” murmurs Arthur in a low voice. He can feel his heart racing with the anticipation. “But first I’m going to tease you until you scream out my name.”

“Fuck!” says Merlin. His chest heaves beneath Arthur’s splayed hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Arthur.

“Jesus, yes, you wanker, fuck!”

At some point Merlin’s voice has gone from urgent whisper to quite loud, and Arthur’s pretty certain they can be heard by the other punts that are gliding along the river outside their little nest. But it’s nothing compared to the long, drawn-out cry that Merlin makes when Arthur’s mouth finally encases the velvety tip of Merlin’s straining cock.

 

 

Through the haze of surging need that pools in his groin, Arthur fleetingly wonders if the staff at Pendragon Manor could hear that, way off in Grantchester.

He’s so hard he thinks he might explode.

Soon the punt is rocking gently to Arthur’s expert rhythm, the lapping water sounding a perfect counterpoint to Merlin’s harsh breathing. When Merlin’s hips start to flex and he groans, softly, Arthur’s ready with a lube-slicked finger. Gently he slides it in, behind the rough hair of Merlin’s sweat-soaked balls, past his taut, resistant furl, closing his eyes as he encounters the sensation of heat that lies beyond it. Another finger joins it, and he crooks them, stroking and teasing in time with the movement of his tongue and lips. Soon Merlin gives in with a shuddering cry, his release flooding into Arthur’s mouth, and then falls back against the cushions, eyes closed and breathing hard.

Licking his lips, Arthur takes a moment to admire this vision by the grey dawn light that’s beginning to filter in through the leaves. It’s his handiwork, and he’s proud of the wreck that he’s made of Merlin, who slumps, slack-mouthed, limp-limbed, dishevelled and half-clad, his bow tie cast aside, shirt wide open, dick softening and wet against his belly.

It’s onto this canvas that Arthur wants to paint his final mark.

Quickly he loosens his trousers, freeing his aching prick, and pulls down his underpants to allow his balls to emerge without them getting caught in the zip. He wraps Merlin’s limp fingers around his girth, covering them with his own. After a moment Merlin’s hand tightens, and Arthur lets his fall away, surging forward along the cushion on his knees, so that the boat cants alarmingly before righting itself.

“Fuck, Merlin,” says Arthur, steadying himself with a hand to the gunwale, as the light strengthens, and colours start to emerge from the gloaming, casting Merlin’s pale body in shades of dark pink and tan. Arthur straddles Merlin’s chest with his thighs, and Merlin strokes, languidly, too slow, and all too fast. Feeling his pleasure build, Arthur casts his head back, and closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he says, again, distantly, lost in a cocoon of bliss when Merlin swirls the dewy liquid across his cockhead with an expert thumb. “So good, so good.”

His hips nudge minutely forward with each stroke of Merlin’s fist, gradually building to a sweet ache. Balls tightening, he feels every muscle tense, as Merlin quickens his pace.

“Look at you,” Merlin murmurs. “God, look at you Arthur. Fuck.”

He’s so close, now, unbearably close, and he hisses through his teeth, trying not to moan with the longing that makes his shoulders hunch and his back arch. All finesse and rhythm gone, now, he rocks into Merlin’s grip, as surging waves of pleasure crest over him and he pulses in thick, white strips onto Merlin’s belly and chest.

When Arthur finally opens his eyes again he’s lying, collapsed in a tangled heap of flailed limbs, soiled glad-rags and soggy punt cushions, a snoring Merlin by his side. The angry slap-slap of the river’s ripples against the punt has subsided, and all he can hear above Merlin’s relaxed breathing is the gentle whisper of the willow’s leaves. Grinning, he nudges his dishevelled boyfriend awake and nods at the picnic hamper.

“Might as well make yourself useful,” he says, lazily rearranging himself with a muffled groan. “Grab me a glass of champagne, would you?”

“Get your own, you lazy sod,” says Merlin, scrabbling at his trousers and pants, and dabbing at his messy chest with a napkin from the hamper.

“Lazy? Was I or was I not the one who did all the work?”

“Didn’t see you complaining!” says Merlin, the cheeky bastard, before sitting up and giving him a half-hearted shove.

“Oi!” Arthur shoves him back, a little more forcefully.

Merlin grins and digs his irritatingly skilful fingers in under Arthur’s dress shirt, unerringly hitting the spot that makes Arthur howl with outraged laughter every time. “Oi yourself!”

Arthur’s not going to stand for this. The captain of the Camelot College cricket team will not be bested in a tickling fight by a snake-hipped guitar player, no matter how much his cheekbones cry out to be possessed. He scrambles to a crouch, forgetting where he is, and somehow finds himself overbalancing, teetering for a second on the brink of the tipping punt, before plunging overboard into the cold, distinctly unsavoury waters of the river.

It’s lucky he remembers to grab Merlin’s skinny body on his way over, dragging him along for the ride.

The water here’s only shoulder deep. As they emerge, gasping and sodden-haired, Arthur’s able to stand and tug Merlin over to the riverside, where they haul themselves out, clamber through the willow’s branches onto the lawns, and lie, panting and helpless with laughter.

“That’s one way of cooling off,” says Merlin, fishing a strand of algae out of Arthur’s hair. “God! I never thought I’d have a boyfriend with green hair before the age of 20!”

Arthur feels light, unburdened with expectations for once. “Idiot,” he says, filled with delight, lifting up onto his elbows to gaze fondly down at Merlin, whose hair is plastered to his head, slicked back and shiny, reflecting the morning sun’s rays. He’s not sure how it’s possible for someone to look that good after the night they’ve just had, but Merlin looks simply ravishable, and Arthur finds himself recovering quickly enough to be developing plans, involving showers, and towelling down, and huddling for warmth. “Come on, let’s get back to my room and clean up. Wouldn’t do to let you die of pneumonia just yet.” Lurching to his feet, he reaches down to tug Merlin up.

“But what about the punt?” says Merlin as he stands. “And the punt pole?”

Arthur shrugs. “I’ll tell Percy where they are.”

“But what about the champagne?”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“You can’t tell me what to—-”

Distantly, while he’s silencing Merlin in time-honoured fashion with a kiss, he registers the flash of a camera.

 

 

 

Hilda steps away from the riverbank with a satisfied grin. Elena, her pumpkin, may not be about to marry into the Pendragon millions any time soon. But she, Hilda, should be able to get a hefty price from the morning papers for her photographs of the Pendragon heir cavorting with the upstart, Merlin Emrys.

It was difficult, finding someone who was prepared to smuggle her out of the college in a punt, but she’d encountered a bedraggled-looking chap, covered in red stains, lurking in the bushes near the river. It had been worth the bribe she’d paid him, she thought. The photos she has obtained will fetch a pretty penny.

Chuckling while she reviews her pictures, she doesn’t even think to wonder about the sudden smell of ketchup until it’s too late. A shadowy figure snatches the camera from her, running off into the distance in a flurry of rancid tomato.

“My camera!” she cries, waddling after him, grateful for her sensible shoes. “Stop! Thief!”

But she’s not fast enough. The ragamuffin is pounding along the towpath, camera held aloft in triumph.

“Just you wait, Pendragon,” he yells, “Just you wait!”

But just as he turns to crow, another figure surges past her, blond hair dark and damp with river-water. Mr Pendragon – Mr Arthur Pendragon – is running, full-tilt, after the thief.

“Cenred, you bastard,” he calls out.

Cenred slows and puts two fingers up at Arthur before starting off again. This defiant gesture is his downfall. It provides all the time Merlin needs to hurl himself at high speed at Cenred, and propel him, arms flailing, towards the Cam’s dark waters.

Spinning, and releasing the camera with a cry, Cenred is propelled almost balletically into the river, with Merlin landing in a great splash just behind. The camera whirls into the air.

For a second she thinks it’s going to fall to the ground and smash, but then, Arthur Pendragon, Captain of Camelot College Men’s Cricket team, batsman, bowler and all-round fielding champion, catches it, one handed, before landing in a triumphant, rolling heap.

“Howzatt!” he cries, pumping his free fist into the air. “Howzatt!”

 

  

~The End~

  

 

**_Epilogue_ **

**Two Years Later**

**Pendragon House, Grantchester, Cambridge**

 

“So glad you could all make it, chaps,” says Arthur, looking happier than Gwaine has ever seen him. He shakes Gwaine’s hand warmly and then gives them all a wave. “We’ll send you a postcard.”

“Not bloody likely,” says Gwaine. “You’ll be too busy shagging like bunnies.”

Arthur laughs. “Yeah, maybe. Thanks for everything, though, mate.”

“No worries,” says Gwaine, grinning. “Now bugger off and pick Merlin up before he changes his mind.” Merlin’s just emerging from the house and bumbling down the steps. He’s changed out of his wedding gear and into casual clothes, ready for the journey.

“Too late for that,” says Arthur, flashing the ring on his fourth finger proudly. He slides into the driving seat of the waiting open-top car and waves at them all. “See you in a month.”

“Yeah, fuck off you lucky bastards,” says Gwaine, without malice. He shuts Arthur’s car door and shoots the cuffs of his stupid Best Man’s uniform.

After Arthur and Merlin have driven off in a cloud of dust, Gwaine turns back to his fellow ushers. “Don’t know about you bastards, but I could do with a drink.”

“Me too,” says Leon.

“Yeah,” says Lance. “But first, I want to claim my winnings.”

“What bloody winnings?”

“You know. From the bet.”

Gwaine hopes that the ridiculous frown he pastes on his face adequately conveys his supreme puzzlement. “What bet?” he says, just to make sure.

Lance sighs and extracts his wallet from his pocket, from which he pulls a crumpled-looking envelope. “The bet on Arthur’s wedding, of course. You know, back when everyone thought Uther’d make him marry a girl, even though he was obviously batting for the other team?”

“He was?” Gwaine suddenly has a very, very bad feeling about this. “It wasn’t that obvious, mate. I mean, I still had money on him marrying Mithian. Not that I’m upset he isn’t.” Gwaine doesn’t say anything, but he’s got designs in that area himself.

Lance shrugs. “Maybe you’re just rubbish at reading the signs,” he says. He extracts his betting slip from the envelope and hands it round.

“ _I bet that Arthur Pendragon marries: Merlin Emrys. Signed: Lancelot Da Vinci Geoffrey Endymion De La Mere Du Lac,_ ” it says, in Lance’s unmistakeable handwriting. It’s dated; the date goes back to the night, two and a half years ago, when they’d last discussed the sweepstakes.

“Well fuck me backwards with a punt pole,” says Myror at last, after scanning the slip for authenticity. “You sneaky bastard. How did you even know…? I mean, it was well before Merlin even got famous. It was way before we even knew they were shagging! Wait… It was before even they knew they were shagging!”

Lance grins. “I might have had some inside information,” he says.

Over Lance’s shoulder Gwaine can see Gwen approaching, her bridesmaid’s dress dragging a little on the damp gravel, and suddenly he understands all too clearly where that inside information came from.

“You cheating bastard!” he says, with grudging admiration.

“Well… okay, so maybe I knew stuff you didn’t. But even so,” Lance adds, “it was a long shot. I reckon you should all cough up.”

Gwaine sighs. He really needs to stop making these ridiculous bets. They only ever lead to him ending up semi naked, snoring into some bin-liner, or being parted from his cash in an equally painful way. Oh yes.

Time to mend the error of his ways.

But that’s when Leon bends to speak softly in his ear. “Bet you a tenner Lance proposes to Gwen before the end of the night,” he says.

Gwaine grins.

On the other hand… he has inside information on that, too. He can see the ring on Gwen’s finger from here.

“Make that twenty quid,” he says.  “Nah. Sod it. Make it fifty.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> A brief note on MS. 
> 
> A close friend of mine was recently diagnosed with MS. After much research, she has found the OMS (Overcoming Multiple Sclerosis) community’s advice on outlook, diet and lifestyle extraordinarily helpful. In this story, Hunith is beginning to follow this advice.
> 
> Joanne Rowling’s mother, Anne, died aged 45 from complications arising from MS. Jo subsequently donated £10 million to the creation of a brand new MS facility in Edinburgh, Scotland. Scotland has one of the highest incidence rates of MS in the world. 
> 
> For more information see http://www.overcomingmultiplesclerosis.org/


End file.
